Abducted
by CKTG
Summary: John has been kidnapped in Moriarty's new plan to burn Sherlock's heart. Suddenly, it's not a game anymore. Includes BAMF!John, Asexual!Sherlock, and no slash. Warnings for violence and angst. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**Hey everyone! I know you're all expecting an update for Ballad or Eternal Footman or (Heaven forbid) JPATMOM, but I've been kind of stuck in the lovely fandom of Sherlock. Don't worry! Updates for those stories will be coming soon (as in within the next two weeks). I don't abandon my stories... ever. And I will give you the rest of my excuses with the JPATMOM update, if you are ever so curious.**

**So here is my first dribble into the Sherlock fandom. I realize my Sherlock may be a bit OOC, as John will have been taken for the majority of this story. He will be a worried Sherlock, and, as always with him, whatever Sherlock is feeling mostly doesn't show on his face. Here's the stats:**

**Long Summary: **John has been kidnapped as a part of the (not so) elaborate plan to burn Sherlock's heart. Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock has been brought to an all new level, and suddenly, it's not a game anymore. Sherlock brings together all of his resources to bring his best friend back and Moriarty down, but will he succeed? Includes Straight!Hurt!BAMF!John, Worried!Asexual!Sherlock, Evil!Moriarty (is there any other kind?), psychotic!Moran, good torturing fun for the whole family, and no slash. Sherlock learns to care and perhaps Moriarty will learn the meaning of losing.

No slash (or relationships, for that matter). This is purely a save John fic. Done before, I know it, but it's such a fun idea to mess around with. Some swearing (I don't think there will be a lot in this one).

This will be short (I hope. I don't plan on it being super long). Updates once a week (well, that's what I'm aiming for...). No flames, please. If you don't like, don't read. If you do like it, then: Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, the awesome creators Gatiss and Moffat do. Also, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns them, too. What would we be without these brilliant men?**

* * *

Abducted

* * *

1

Doctor John Watson was having a good day. All of his patients were healthy and living, Sarah had finally agreed to a second date (this time it would not be at a circus—that was the last time he took dating advice from Sherlock), and he had received a call earlier from his sister, Harry (surprising, really, as they had never gotten along), who had told him she checked herself into rehab in order to quell her drinking habits. Every other step he felt he must have hopped a bit, and he grinned and nodded at every person he passed, occasionally giving them a pleasant "Hello." He felt like laughing, but he could do that in the private company of his home. Sherlock believed he was a strange specimen, anyway.

Of course, on the busy streets of London where people are always trying to get somewhere, he was either barely noticed or given a wide berth as if his happy loopiness was a contagious and festering disease. But John didn't mind if people thought he was crazy, nor did he mind if the cabby thought he had paid too much (which should have been an indicator that something was going wrong, as cabbies never complained of too much a tip). No, John was too happy to care what people thought of him. The day was nice and sunny, Sherlock had actually remembered to get the milk yesterday, and John was given the honors this morning to dispose of Sherlock's latest experiment, which involved the kitchen sink and a couple of floating hands. His baggy, beige sweater over his polo shirt was overly comfortable underneath his bomber jacket, especially with a chilled breeze drifting over the busy city like a transparent fog, cooling his flushed face and proposing a tingle within his fingers.

His grin widened as he entered the warm splash of heat that came with the stuffed coffee place a few blocks down from his flat on Baker Street, and John sighed and dropped his shoulders as the warmth permeated his jacket and stung his freezing fingers. John stepped into line behind an older woman and her tall son and looked about the place: the creamy, rich brown walls; the promotive posters of their newest (and supposedly better) flavors of crap coffee near the reflective window (a Pumpkin Chai Latte… it sounded like the fruity sort of thing Sarah would like); the small, round tables seating many civilians sipping their tea, typing away with pounding fingers on the delicate keyboards of their expensive computers; and the cute, blonde girl working the register with a gleaming smile and a tinkling laugh.

Countless times Sherlock had pointed out how much younger the girl was ("Please, John, she's barely eighteen. You have a high moral standard, do you not?"), but it didn't stop John from growing hot in the collar as he tried to ignore the girl's lovely—erm—assets or her bubbly personality ("John, she's an idiot. I doubt she even knows the difference between a covalent and an ionic bond").

"Hello, Doctor Watson!" the girl said, interrupting John's concentration on _not _trying to admire the girl. Usually thinking of a six foot tall maniac of a father worked well enough for him. "What would you like today?"

John gave his easy smile. "Two regulars, please. Two sugars in one. Only milk in the other, please."

"Coming right up, sir!" she said, her blonde curls bouncing in the bright, florescent lighting above her station. John only had to wait a few moments before she presented him with two large takeaway cups of their finest coffee.

"Thank you, Eliza." John nodded and walked away with her usual "Have a nice day!" ringing in his ears. There was a strange prickling on the back of his neck, but he brushed it aside as he exited the glass doors and into the biting November air.

As he made his way to his home on Baker Street, John's back automatically stiffened and it was a moment before he realized he had gone into what Sherlock deemed his "Soldier Stance" (straight spine, forcibly relaxed shoulders, and tense no-nonsense facial features). The only difference was that he was holding two cups of coffee and he was still walking. John listened to his instincts and honed in his senses, ignoring the bustling, faceless strangers and the hurried footsteps that came with them. He also ignored the swooping, rushing of the wind (from both the fast-paced cars and natural causes) and kept out the intruding voices of businessmen on their cell-phones. His eyes sharpened as he tried to catch something off, something wrong with the picture, scoping out edges of buildings and glimpsing the darkness of alleyways, forcing himself not to glance behind him in case he was indeed behing tracked. A small movement out of the corner of his eye nearly made him falter in his steps; a sleek, black car edged a bit into view, but it didn't move with the traffic, but no one was exiting or entering the car.

If it was Mycroft, the car would have pulled up right next to him.

A bit worried now, John shifted one of the coffees into the crook of his elbow (holding it close to his body and glad for the sealed lids holding the steaming liquid in) and took out his cell phone. He didn't know the range of the hearing of who may be tailing him, so he quickly texted a message to Sherlock Holmes, his eccentric (and egocentric) flat mate and admittedly best friend.

[I think I'm being followed – JW]

He sent the message quickly and let out a breath of air he wasn't aware of holding in. He only hoped Sherlock was not too busy with a new experiment to answer.

But as his phone vibrated with the incoming message a mere three seconds later, John would have smacked himself in the forehead had his hands not been full of coffee; Sherlock _always _replies back (unless it was the British Government, whom he ignored on principle). He would outlive God just to get the last word in.

[Where are you? – SH]

[Keep moving and don't look back. It might give them an incentive to act quicker – SH]

John was no longer aware of the chilly weather or of the people around him. He was only barely attentive of the heat seeping through the thick, cardboard cups that held his and Sherlock's coffee he was holding with his left arm and side of body. What he was aware of, though, was the tenseness rolling off his shoulders and the slick feeling of dread in his stomach; Sherlock had basically confirmed John's suspicions.

John had begun to text Sherlock back when hot coffee splattered up from his arm, covering John's face and his left side in the steaming brown liquid. It burned his cheek and nose as he gasped in surprise, dropping the cups to the cement, staining the gray slab with their innards. His phone clattered to the ground as John looked about himself, edging to the side of the building nearest to him and wondering where the pedestrians had gone, for he was sure the street was busy not too long ago. Now only a few people rushed about, sparing him only an unconcerned or irritated glance at his disruption of their day.

_You're a delightful date, _John thought scathingly to the scowling old woman who had just hobbled before him, brandishing her fist and muttering about the 'nerve of young people' and their 'pleas for attention.' John snorted once the woman was out of sight; she must have missed last night's dose of her evening soothers.

John flicked his hands to rid of the excess coffee trailing down his fingers, a bit sour now that his hard earned money spent on some perfectly horrific coffee had gone to waste, when he noticed something odd about the heavy-duty paper cup. Curious, John crouched forward and looked at the fallen coffee cup to see a small, rounded hole that had gone completely through as if cut with a very sharp and precise knife.

Ice froze in John's veins. It would have taken a skilled hit man to shoot the coffee cup and not hit John, and somehow, he didn't believe the shot was meant to hit him.

The words of Shan when she had kidnapped him months ago, believing him to be Sherlock Holmes, came to mind as he inspected the cup.

"_What does it tell you when an assassin can not shoot straight?"_

He remembered the terrible, flustering fear of death's doors as Shan cocked the revolver back, aiming it for his head. He remembered the dread of not being able to escape from his ties and he had averted his head as if it would make it harder for Shan to hit her target. It was a false security, he knew, but it did help (if only a little, microscopic, bit) in alleviating his fright.

_Click._

"_It means they're not really trying."_

John got the feeling that her dangerous words applied here, as well.

He was just standing up when a sharp pain at the back of his head brought weariness to his limbs and a dark cloud in front of his eyes. He was swallowed whole in unconsciousness before he hit the ground.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was bored. Extremely bored. Everything around him was dull. The telly was dull, the annoyingly fancy wallpaper was dull (the reason he felt the need to spice it up with a bright yellow smiley face and a few bullet holes), and all the books behind his and John's chairs were dull, as he had read them all. Everything in the world was dull dull dull. Dull! Why weren't the criminals killing anyone yet? Why weren't they being clever so he can beat them with his superior intellect? Why were they being so dreadfully uninteresting?

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, his long fingers twitching slightly and reaching for his forearm. He needed a distraction. He needed a _case_, but Lestrade didn't have anything for him and threatened to raid his home in a drugs bust if he didn't stop texting the Detective Inspector. Sherlock had scoffed at the frail attempt to intimidate him; he was clean. He didn't even smoke! But having twenty police officers in his flat would be an invasion of his personal space and boredom, and only John had that permission. Besides, John wouldn't be very impressed with a drugs bust in their flat. With another bored sigh, Sherlock went over the fact that John would not be happy with a high consulting detective, either. So that labeled a 'no' on _that _solution to his problem as well.

"I'm _bored!_" Sherlock shouted to the ceiling, throwing his lanky arms to the sides and ignoring the light, stinging pain that came to his wrists as they knocked against the end of the couch and the carpeted floor (which really did nothing but make it harder for spills to clean up. Why inconvenience the floor like that?).

Silence pressed against his ears, and after a minute or two, the crook of his left arm started to itch again. Good Lord, he needed something to stop his whirring mind… or to stimulate it, like a case.

Sherlock swallowed and noted with surprise that he was a bit thirsty. Turning to his side and closing his eyes, he shouted, "John! Tea!"

He was greeted with silence once more. There were no footsteps announcing John's arrival, nor was there any grumbling for Sherlock to get a job (Dull) or for him to get his own bloody tea (Dull). A bit annoyed by the lack of response from his friend, Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up, searching for John's existence. The air around him was stale and undisturbed—it smelled a little like the rotting flesh from the collection of arms in the freezer—by the differing odors of John's cologne as he passed through the living area and the tea he usually boiled. Sherlock shifted his head to the large, comfy sofa with the Union Jack pillow (indent on the chair unbothered from this morning or last night, angled toward Sherlock's own chair and the fire for maximum relaxation) and took note of the unfinished cup of tea on the table nearby. Odd; John always finished his tea.

"John!" Sherlock called out to the seemingly empty room. He stopped to listen for shuffling or cursing from falling out of bed. The floorboards above him didn't creak, nor was there a holler back telling Sherlock to shut up. "John!"

Sherlock frowned. John was not in 221B Baker Street. So where was he?

Feeling up to solving the mystery of 'where in the world John could be now' (he could always text John, but that was boring, and Sherlock needed a quest… especially since he allowed John to cheerfully dispose of his decaying skin in water experiment last night—for some reason, John _really _hated that experiment), Sherlock stood up from his warm couch, wrapped his thin, blue robe tighter around his body and walked about the flat, studying the missing articles John could have taken with him.

His laptop was on the table next to Sherlock's, so John was _not _on a long term trip, nor was he out of the country (he couldn't blog very well without the electronic device, could he?). Sherlock took a peek down the narrow staircase and noted John's dark, heavy jacket was gone from the hook near the door, so John was out of the house. Sherlock crept up the stairs and slipped into John's room. Sherlock chuckled at John's attempt to keep Sherlock out; a lockbox? Please. John needed to get a little more creative than that. It only took him thirty seconds to figure out the combination.

The room was neat, orderly, and so obviously military. Barely any pictures of family—less of his sister… but, then again, they had never gotten along—circulated the room. Sherlock nearly smiled at the one Mrs. Hudson took of him and John laughing in the hallway (they had hidden Mrs. Hudson's Herbal Soothers from her in their—well, Sherlock's—boredom and Mrs. Hudson, the sneaky, devious woman, knew it all along and took a picture of them as her revenge. John and Sherlock were not pleased afterward). The bed was unmade, so he was in a rush this morning (Ah! That explains the tea), and counting the scuff marks on the floor and recent fingerprints on the wall John was extremely groggy and woke with either a hangover or interrupted his sleep cycle. John didn't have a late night with Stamford last night, so it was the latter. Sherlock creaked open John's closet and took in the sight of John's well worn shoes—the most irritating of them all were gone, so John must be somewhere he might encounter stains.

So: coat gone, crappiest dress shoes, unfinished tea, briefcase relieved from its usual spot on the ground nearest the door, all together with the fact that the refrigerator sported the very helpful schedule of a Dr. John Watson, Sherlock came to a conclusion. Obvious. John had gone to work today!

A muscle at the edge of Sherlock's mouth twitched. He had solved it. He was a genius!

Feeling much more accomplished, Sherlock returned to the living room to pick up his phone and check the time. There were a couple of text messages and missed calls from Mycroft, but Sherlock ignored them. The British Government could wait until after he checked the time. It was past five o'clock. So John should be returning soon.

His phone made a tinging noise and Sherlock picked up his phone. If one speaks of the devil…

[Going to get coffee. Do you want some? – JW]

A light feeling lifted in his stomach. Was it joy? Sherlock nearly scoffed. Of course it wasn't. John was only coming home, and his boredom would be somewhat lessened. John did have interesting ways of wasting time, and Sherlock decided a week ago he was going to calculate the probability of his flat mate drinking tea while watching the telly to him not drinking the tea during. So far, it was a 5:1 ratio. John did have a liking for tea.

[Black. Two sugars – SH]

[You could say thank you – JW]

[Irrelevant. I haven't got my coffee yet – SH]

[Charming – JW]

[I know – SH]

Sherlock could almost hear John's exasperated sigh. With a low chuckle, Sherlock put his phone down and looked about their living space. Papers from old cases were strewn about the floor and a few of the removable cushions of the couch he was laying on were resting on the floor haphazardly (Sherlock had thrown them at the bright smiley face as he could not find John's Browning). Sherlock supposed he could clean up his mess (Mrs. Hudson was not their housekeeper, after all), as it _was_ his fault things were out of order anyway, so Sherlock spent the next few minutes stacking the cushions into a miniature fort for Yorick the Skull. Sherlock was just sticking the loose pages of a closed case underneath John's chair when his phone beeped again.

This next text message, however, didn't sit right with Sherlock's nerves. In fact, it made it hard to swallow as he read John's next choice of conversation.

[I think I'm being followed – JW]

Sherlock's mind froze for a moment before whirring to full speed as he sprinted through his Mind Palace, searching (not frantically… Sherlock didn't do _frantic_) for a reason for John's text and a name to his pursuers. John could have made a mistake, but John wasn't one to make such a mistake with his instincts, military man as he was. So Sherlock ruled out paranoia and deleted it; John was not paranoid nor was he superstitious. That left a few of Sherlock's enemies. Most of them were in prison, so it narrowed down his quarry to two people: Mycroft and Moriarty. It was possible for Mycroft to be the one, but he was always keeping tabs on Sherlock and John, and he was discrete about it.

So it must have been Moriarty. He was starting that blasted game again. Sherlock was bored, but he didn't know if he wanted to play _that _for a second time. Once was good enough. Sure, Moriarty was interesting and pushed his adrenaline nearly to his breaking point, but when it involved John, the game was _not _fun anymore. Sherlock would say it was frightening, but Sherlock didn't get scared. Besides, despite Moriarty's interesting character, Sherlock truly despised the man for what he was.

Sherlock seriously hoped Moriarty was messing with John's head and not intending on actual harm.

[Where are you? – SH]

He texted this within five seconds of John's worrying message. If John was near Baker Street, there was a possibility that Sherlock could reach John and assist him if Moriarty intended to give them a little trouble.

Sherlock was quickly stripping his pajamas and slipping on the nearest articles of clothing he could find when a second thought came into his head. He decided to warn John just in case.

[Keep moving and don't look back. It might give them an incentive to act quicker – SH]

Sherlock shrugged on his long coat and tied his blue scarf around his neck, trapping a few of his black curls. He pulled on his gloves and waited by his phone, but the next message never came.

[John? You there? Answer me, you idiot – SH]

[This isn't funny John. You better be back here soon with my coffee and an explanation – SH]

[John! – SH]

Sherlock frowned and fidgeted. John should have gotten back to him right now, even if he was messaging with one hand. Something was wrong, and Sherlock had no idea where John was. Irritation itched under Sherlock's skin. Why didn't John give Sherlock the exact coffee shop he was going to? Why didn't he include the street? It would have made finding John so much easier.

Sherlock scowled at the phone; John could have very well gone into a Diner… they sell coffee as well. There were about thirty different places John could have gone between the clinic where John worked and 221B Baker Street, and he could be on a dozen different roads, some within Sherlock's immediate walking distance, some where he would have to take a cab in order to be there in time… if it was not too late already.

Sherlock pulled at the ends of his hair. _Stop it, Sherlock! Stop it right now! Think! Where is the most probable location for John to go at this time?_

But Sherlock did not know for sure, and he could not afford to guess, which was the reason why he _deduced_ conclusions. He never guessed. Guessing was bad and lead to severe mistakes.

Five minutes were gone and John still hadn't texted back. John couldn't have gotten a cab… perhaps he was stopped by a random stranger from the street claiming to be a university or high school friend of John's (quite a few people tended to do that, especially with Sherlock there. It was very annoying), but a cold, heavy feeling in his stomach disagreed with that. Two more minutes also passed with him pacing and holding his phone, but no sound came from it.

Unable to handle the stress, Sherlock shot from the living area of his flat and down the staircase and crashed through the door (nearly tearing it off the hinges), receiving a couple of odd looks from the neighboring pedestrians. He ignored their stares and observed around him. John hadn't been close to the flat, so he didn't get their coffee from Mrs. Hudson's deli next to 221B.

A bit more worried than he would like to admit, Sherlock began running down the street, not flagging down a cabbie in case he missed something by searching for John through a dusty old window. He bowled over a little old woman with shriveled, curling hands (about eighty years old, dead spouse, unloved by her children, arthritis, a fondness for scones, and she seemed upset at having been pushed down for some reason) and nearly trampled a crying kid who was sitting on the ground (the single mother had shouted abuse, but there was a missing John Watson on his hands, and the good doctor was frankly more important than a child crying for a puppy she will never have), his good shoes slapping the pavement quietly in his long, efficient strides (less noise, fast pace, quicker results). A car or two may have honked at him as he crossed the road without looking (John would have told him this was 'Not Good'), but it didn't matter.

It was only thirty seconds after he had crossed that road when he came upon a large stain of something that couldn't be anything other than coffee—the smell was too distinct (bitter, tangy, fresh)—and it was two large cups of the stuff (both black, one with sugar, one without and with milk… the way John liked it). Sherlock pushed away his horror into a small box in his Mind Palace and paced around the street square, his sharp, green eyes taking in everything he could about this scene. John's life depended on it.

Taking out his pocket magnifying glass, Sherlock crouched down to the large coffee stain to look at the dark brown dregs left so pitifully on the ground. He sniffed the air around it, then ungloved his hand and touched the damp spot. It was cooled (due to the exposure to the cold air) but wet, which meant the coffee was dropped only a short time before. He lifted his fingers to his nose and sniffed. Nothing at all. He tasted it with a flick of his tongue and paused, sifting through acquired tastes and textures. No, no, this was normal coffee, so John wasn't drugged if he had decided to take a swig of it. There must have been something else…

There were semi-dried footprints of a left foot (John's shoe, he realized with a sinking feeling) leading to the side of the building… something must have startled the good doctor… but what? Not much could have startled battle ready John Watson. It just didn't compute.

Sherlock searched the area again and noticed John's phone a few feet away from the coffee stain. He picked it up and noticed John's unfinished message to Sherlock: [I'm on Baker Str—]. The phone was slick and sticky with the spilled coffee and the screen was cracked down the middle. He was vaguely surprised the phone hadn't received a bit of water damage. Other than the fact that John would need a new cell phone, Sherlock deduced John must have dropped it the same time he dropped the coffee, thus freeing both hands in preparation for a fight. Sherlock slid the phone into his pocket as he moved on.

The one-sided footsteps, lighter now with the drying of the coffee, returned to the splash. John was examining something… it couldn't have been the actual coffee stain… the cups! Where were the cups?

Excitement shamelessly rushed through his veins at the discovery. Finally! Somewhat of a lead! Now if he could only find the cups…

Sherlock froze in his search and looked down, crouching until he was nearly eye-level with the sidewalk. Blood. There was blood. Not a lot of it, but enough to show John had been hurt in some way. He pushed down the hot boiling anger and breathed a couple of times. John was a soldier. He was tough. He had killed people on his "bad days," as he liked to call them. He had shot the Cabby to save Sherlock's life, so surely he could kill someone to save his own until Sherlock could get to him. And then Sherlock could yell at John for not telling him the _exact_ coffee shop John visited.

Sherlock shook his head; he _must _concentrate at the task on hand. John. He had to find John. There were two thick marks on the ground from John's shoes—he had been dragged after he had been knocked out (the most common method being chloroform or a blow to the back of the head, Sherlock bet the latter of the two, there was no struggle and there was blood on the ground), but it ended on the curb. So John had been dragged into a car (no noticeable tire tracks, so he couldn't place the car) and the kidnapper had taken off.

But where were those cups? Those cups would let Sherlock know what in the world startled John Watson. It was bugging him to no end! He had to know!

Sherlock's wait wasn't long. He only had to pace about ten steps before he saw one of the distinctly green cups (Starbucks? Really, John?) underneath a parked car and the other in the darkened alleyway. The wind must have scattered the evidence (stupid weather, destroying clues). Sherlock picked them up and observed a rounded hole through one of them, tearing through the hardened paper as if a small bullet had pierced the cup. Yes, that would have startled John Watson, especially if he was unarmed. Did John leave his gun at work again? The idiot.

John's kidnapper wasn't aimed to kill—it would have taken a sharpshooter to purposefully make a cup of coffee explode. It was a sniper's skillful shot, and a damn good one too.

So John had been followed by at least two people—a foot soldier and a sniper—but there was likely more, as this was probably Moriarty's work. Who else would want to kidnap John Watson? He didn't have any enemies as far as Sherlock knew (everyone liked John). This was obviously a message for Sherlock.

Unfortunately, he would need some help (there just wasn't enough evidence to do this alone), and he would be damned if he was going to call his brother.

He picked up his phone and dialed, pressing the cool metal to his ear and listening carefully, leaning against the building John had hidden behind and watched the street for anymore suspicious activity.

Lestrade's voice came on, clipped and annoyed. His words were slightly slurred—tired, perhaps. He must have missed his third cup of coffee today. _"Hello? Sherlock? This had better be important… I'm a bit busy at the moment…"_

"I'd like to report a missing person." Sherlock nearly flinched at his own tone of voice: cold, detached, emotionless. Dead. He had to distance himself, though, or he would make mistakes. And mistakes he could not afford to make. Not this time.

"_Sherlock?"_ Damn. Lestrade must have caught the change in his voice, for he now sounded concerned. _"Sherlock, what the hell…"_

"I'm trying to make a formal inquiry, Lestrade, so please shut the stupid off for two seconds. It's making it hard for me to think."

Lestrade huffed. _"What is it, Sherlock? Please be quick, I'm trying to get my work done."_

You just returned from a late lunch and you missed your coffee break. You won't be getting much done at all with your lack of concentration, especially since your wife left last week. "I'd like to report a missing person," Sherlock repeated through gritted teeth, refusing the urge to repeat his deductions. John said that insults never got him anywhere, especially when trying to get something done. John was usually right about these things. Sentiment. Disgusting.

"_Missing…" _Lestrade trailed off and Sherlock could hear the shuffling of papers and a shift of his attention. _"Who is it, Sherlock? Who's missing?"_

"John Watson."


	2. Chapter 2

2

The silence from Lestrade was almost as irritating and depressing as the silence in the flat when John wasn't there. It pressed against Sherlock's ears and forced a ringing sound to disrupt his thoughts, placing a noisy fog over what should be a clear answer. Sherlock waited for Lestrade to respond, pacing a hole into the cement in his impatience. Did these police people know _anything _about timely matters? This was important!

"Lestrade!" Sherlock barked, his annoyance at stupid and slow people at an all time high. "Has your tiny little brain comprehended what I just said or must I break it into terms even _Anderson _can understand?"

"_No, I… John Watson? Our John Watson? Missing?"_ Lestrade sounded meek and his voice was a rough strain. It did nothing to improve Sherlock's temper.

"No, the other John Watson who is an Army Doctor and shares a flat with me—_of course our John Watson,_" (My John Watson, he corrected in his head. He didn't like sharing, much, especially his only and best friend) "Do you need me to describe him for you or do you think you've got that covered?"

"_No, I've got it…"_ Lestrade's voice was weary and there was another shuffling of papers. There was a few seconds of clicking before Lestrade spoke up again. _"Do you have any leads?"_

"Nothing much that is helpful," Sherlock growled into the phone. He slammed his fist into the wall behind him in frustration. The pain in his hand didn't do much to lift his anger. "John was out getting coffee after he was done with work. He had texted me before saying he was being followed. He was taken before he could send his next message to me."

"_Wait… how do you know this?" _Lestrade asked, sounding slightly skeptical.

Sherlock forced himself to breathe and stay calm. He was working with complete imbeciles. "I found his phone. His next message was unfinished."

"_Oh… go on."_

"He was shot at, but purposefully was not hit. So much so obvious. The sniper…"

"_Sniper?"_

"Yes! Sniper! It had to be from the second floor balcony of the trinket shop, with the angle of the bullet that had gone through the cup!" Sherlock's voice was growing louder and more agitated with every interruption Lestrade offered. It was very annoying and insulting. John would have understood him. "While he was inspecting the bullet hole in his coffee cup, he was hit in the back of the head and dragged into a car. That's where the trail ends."

"_Good, good…" _Lestrade sounded confused and worried as his fingers clicked over the keyboard with semi-rapid speed. He typed with two fingers, obvious from the uneven pounding of the keys. Atrocious. _"Have you got anything else?"_

"I believe this was the work of Moriarty and his men," Sherlock whispered, unsure if he wanted Lestrade to know this information.

Unfortunately, Lestrade heard him and spluttered. _"Hang on, Moriarty? Wasn't he the bomber bloke who you said was a consulting criminal?"_

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, pressing a free hand to the bridge of his nose.

"_Christ… fucking Christ we're dealing with your evil twin…" _Lestrade said. Sherlock froze at these words, unable to know how to respond. That was an interesting choice of words. Oh well, at least Lestrade was convinced _Sherlock_ wasn't a heartless, murdering bastard; he could have said _Sherlock _was the evil twin. Lestrade was speaking again,_ "are you sure this isn't a job for your brother?"_

Sherlock gritted his teeth and set his jaw. "I don't need a babysitter," Sherlock hissed. He ended the call with an irritated pressing of the red button and forced his phone into his pocket as if Lestrade's sense of stupid could travel radio waves and infect Sherlock's thinking process. Sherlock looked once more around the crime scene before pocketing both of the dripping and empty coffee cups and lifted samples of John's blood, the coffee stain, and the scuff marks on the cement before trudging home.

* * *

Pain.

That was the first thing John could register. It wasn't a lot of pain, granted, he's had a lot worse, but it didn't make it any less so. The back of his head throbbed as if it had been hit hard with a blunt object (which was probably the case. John bet it was the side of a gun) and his face and ribs ached slightly from having been dumped unceremoniously on the cold, hard ground.

Dirt and filth were the next things he could register. The feeling crawled up his nose with uncanny ease and made him shiver from the inside. Wherever he was, it was in need of disinfectant and a good mop or two. Though he must not have been in the musty space for long, he could feel the grime on his skin and the cool cement flooring that refused to warm with John's body heat lying right on top of it.

John shivered once, as the place was about as cold as a giant freezer, before stuffing the urge away and letting his survival instincts take over. He kept his original body position and forced himself to regulate his breathing into deep and even breaths, feigning his sleep. He was face-down on the floor, which explained how he could smell the dank room so effectively. The air around his skin and thin clothing (so his jacket was gone—damn, he loved that jacket) was damp and stale, warning him of his surroundings. He was in some kind of cellar… and judging by the fact he had no recollection of being there, John came to the conclusion that he had been kidnapped, especially since the memory of being followed home replayed in his mind. John inhaled once deeply; he still smelled like the bittersweet tang of coffee. The stickiness stuck to the side of his face and irritated the skin there, but there wasn't much he could do to rid of it.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

Footsteps echoed blankly off the wall and there was a distant rumbling of a conversation that grew louder with every step. The noise was coming from John's left, and as the voices continued, he repressed a shiver; one voice he recognized, one he did not.

"… it is that I don't quite understand where exactly you're going with this…" The first voice was deep and hoarse, as if the man spent a lot of his spare time screaming at people, and yet, it was husky and soft. John didn't recognize this voice, but there was something about it that put John's nerves on edge.

"You never do, my dear," said the second voice, and John froze. The mocking and change of pitch was very recognizable: this was the voice of Jim Moriarty.

John's heart thudded heavily against his chest, and John forced himself to calm down, to breathe slowly, and to relax his body. Moriarty wouldn't hurt him. He didn't like getting his hands dirty… he said so himself…

Somehow, this didn't exactly reassure John.

The voices lowered, the mystery man's assuming a gruff undertone as if speaking by someone's death bed. John could only catch a few words, "… your obsession… delirious… are you sure… with the uni so close…"

"Relax, my knight," Moriarty purred. The footsteps stopped in front of the door and John's heartbeat shuddered. "You worry too much. Besides, the fun is about to start!"

The door slammed open, and John jumped to his feet in surprise. With a heavy head, John staggered as the gray, cellar floor tilted to the right. Dizzy and lightheaded, John ignored the throbbing at the back of his head and straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes at the sight before him.

The cellar he had been thrown into looked much like an unfinished basement: hard, concrete flooring and walls with a single, dangling light bulb hanging from the low rafters of the ceiling. The door (which also looked like a slab of cement) stood ajar, letting in only a short square of light illuminating the drifting dust particles in the stale air. John blinked at the sudden light flickering above him. The fuzzy darkness that held onto his vision disappeared, leaving the apparition of two men before him.

The first he recognized all too well. Only an inch or two taller than John himself, Jim Moriarty sauntered forward in his tasteful Westwood suit, a slightly manic grin on his thin face, his dark eyes sharp and hard. His dark hair was slicked back and a recent array of stubble decorated right underneath his acute angle of a nose and along his jaw. John swallowed imperceptibly at the sight of the man who had strapped Semtex to his body (thus forcing him to play along as Moriarty's human puppet) only a few months before. He shifted his sight to the somewhat familiar man behind him.

He was tall and starkly muscular, the fact much provided by the olive green shirt he had pushed up his corded forearms. His face was square but weather-beaten, his thin lips pulled down in what looked to be a permanent scowl. Sandy blonde hair just shades lighter than John's and cut in nearly exactly the same way lay messily over his scalp. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken at least twice (and was never set right), and there was a very unnerving, excited glint in his eyes. John found he couldn't look at this man without having to twitch from discomfort, so he returned his gaze to Moriarty, who had stopped merely inches away from John's nose.

"Hello, Johnny-boy!" Moriarty said jovially, as if they were best friends. He took one hand from his pocket and clapped it on John's left shoulder.

"Mr. Moriarty," John grunted out, blinking away the pain that came from his injured shoulder.

"Pleased to see me?" Moriarty asked with a satisfied grin.

John choked as Moriarty's nails dug deeper into his bullet scar. "No," John forced out, trying to disregard the feeling of his destroyed muscle rubbing against the bone. "No, I can't say I am."

Moriarty gave a playful sigh and shook his head. "A shame," he said, dropping his painful grip on John's bad shoulder.

John exhaled in relief and straightened once more—he hadn't noticed he was beginning to curl in on himself. John didn't want to take his eyes from the dangerous criminal mastermind in front of him (who knew what he was planning?), but a grunt of impatience sounded behind Jim, causing John's attention to be pulled away so he could look at the second visitor. There was a nagging at the back of his head, either warning him or otherwise, for this man seemed somewhat familiar.

Moriarty noticed John's shift in attention and glanced behind him. "Oh, that's just Sebby, my dear _John_," Moriarty explained with a mocking concern splayed over his features. "He's a little excited to be reacquainted with his old Captain."

John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. What exactly was Moriarty implying?

Moriarty's grin became more feral on his animated face, and his seemingly lifeless eyes lit up in excitement. "What? Don't you remember, my pet?"

Anger surged through John's veins like molten magma, itching through his hands and rising to his face. He wasn't _anyone's _pet. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Lieutenant Sebastian Moran," Moriarty stated, gesturing to the tall man waiting by the door. Moran's face was partially hidden in shadows, but what John could see from it, his face was strained, impatient, as if waiting for something. Moriarty's voice was entirely too gleeful for John's liking. "I believe he's spent eight years among the king's horses before a certain Army Doctor burned him."

John swallowed thickly, the haze over his mind clearing. Oh yes, now he remembered… the heat beating down on his back, hot sweat dripping down the side of his face and slicking underneath his helmet, white hot fury racing through his veins as he shouted himself hoarse at a tall, smirking man… the smirking man's quickly darkening face… promising murder…

Moriarty had seen the recognition flicker in John's eyes, and his grin widened impossibly. Moran's dark chuckle reverberated in the damp cellar and he licked his lips in anticipation.

"'Lo, Captain," Moran said in his deep voice. He began to push himself away from the wall he was leaning against, but Moriarty held up a hand, and Moran froze, settling back in the position he held before; leg propped up against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze darting between Moriarty and John, a hungry look in his eyes.

"Down, Sebby," Moriarty commanded calmly, the mocking gone from his voice now. "You'll get your turn soon."

"I look forward to it," Moran said. He lazily saluted John before slipping out the heavy slab of a door.

_Shit_, John thought as he watched the tall man exit the holding cell that was now John's room. He hadn't liked the way Moran had said those last words.

There was a prickle on the back of John's neck and John shifted his gaze to see Moriarty watching him, his face blank, eyes dull. Fear trailed down John's spine like a sliding ice cube, but John quelled it by clenching his fists and setting his jaw.

"Sorry. Seb's a bit impatient," Moriarty said in a low voice as if sharing some forbidden secret. A smirk flitted at the corners of his mouth. "He's still sore about his dismissal. _Oh well_."

Moriarty swaggered over to the door, leaving John standing in the middle of the bare room. His pale hand lingered on the light switch as he turned to face John. "Get a good rest, John. We have a little fairytale to sort through tomorrow."

The light switched off and the door slammed shut, leaving John seething and confused in the darkness.

* * *

Greg Lestrade was not having a good week. Yesterday, for example, he had gotten up in the morning, expecting a kiss from his wife, but then he reached out with a blind hand and found her side of the bed cold, the pillow untouched. She had left the week before for that damned P.E. teacher (just like Sherlock said—damn him, too. Then again, Lestrade supposed, Sherlock _was _trying to help… in his own, twisted way).

When he had gotten to work, Sergeant Donovan and Anderson had been screaming at the top of their lungs, demanding him to arrest Sherlock for being completely right all of the time. Sherlock, apparently, had gotten so bored he broke into Scotland Yard in the early hours of the morning, solved all of the cold cases, and left them on Sally's desk before she had come in at six. Lestrade hadn't known what Anderson was complaining about until he saw the lovely message from Sherlock in Anderson's station reminding Lestrade to 'please hire someone less stupid in Forensics.'

"Well, he did ask nicely," Lestrade had reasoned, but this only resulted in thirty more minutes of Anderson whining in his ear. He eventually had to threaten Anderson with handcuffs so he could reach his office.

There he stayed sorting through paperwork, a migraine working its way to the front of his head, feeling miserable about his recently non-existent marital status, rubbing the puffy bags under his eyes, occasionally nursing a cup of coffee so he just didn't feel so damn _tired_ all the time.

He had just gotten back from an unsatisfactory lunch at the local deli when his phone jolted in his pocket, ringing that stupid annoying tone he had reserved for Sherlock, shocking his eyes wide open and causing him to scatter the loose pages from his latest case (a daylight robber who had gotten away).

With a harsh swear word he would have never used around impressionable children, he had clicked open his phone with an irritated, "Hello? Sherlock? This had better be important…"

And just when Lestrade thought his day couldn't get any worse.

Turns out, it was quite important. Sherlock's best friend (and lion tamer… who knew the soldier's presence could calm Sherlock Holmes down?) had been kidnapped by the bomber from a few months back. His first thought was: _Fuck._ And then: _Why John?_ John Watson was a nice, quiet bloke whose tranquil demeanor naturally brought agitation down to the lowest level. Who the hell would want to kidnap John?

But, of course, it made sense once Sherlock said the name "Moriarty." Sherlock had said something about the psychopath being a consulting criminal and that he was the most dangerous man one could be unfortunate enough to meet. Sherlock also said Moriarty liked to play games (just like Sherlock)… but after seeing John and Sherlock's ashen faces after they were escorted from the pool area, Lestrade bet the game had lost its novelty. It had gotten too dangerous.

He then registered Sherlock's voice on the phone, and noticed how… lost he sounded. Hollowed out and uncertain, almost as if Moriarty had kicked him in the gut. Sherlock never displayed genuine emotion, but this was just a hinge off of what he normally sounded like. However, as the phone call progressed, Sherlock's deep monotone quickly angered and he was more impatient with Lestrade than he usually was, and his breathing was quick and rough. If Lestrade didn't know any better, he would have bet Sherlock was panicking.

Once Sherlock had ended the call (refusing to acknowledge how helpful his brother could be), Lestrade held his head in his hands for two seconds, collected himself, and prepared for a Sherlock like no one had ever seen before (who knew what Sherlock would be like with John in the hands of a criminal mastermind), and stood up to bring Sherlock's first formal inquiry up to the chief for approval.

Back to today, filing his paperwork and wishing to be anywhere else, Lestrade groaned loudly when Sally Donovan, proud-faced and curly-haired, opened the door and burst in, her light coat ruffled in irritation. His impatient and bad-mannered noise made Sally look even more indignant.

"What, Sally?" Lestrade asked wearily, placing a form on his desk. He was too tired to even apologize. Besides, most of his co-workers acted like children half the time, anyway.

"Freak's here," she stated with menace in her voice. Lestrade took in her frizzled hair and clenched fists, which only added more evidence to her statement.

Lestrade nodded and made to exit his office when Sherlock walked through the half open door, striding past Sally as if Lestrade's office was his own home. Sally huffed and crossed her arms, pursing her lips at Sherlock's noticeably rude behavior.

Sherlock stopped in front of Lestrade, opened his mouth as to say something, then closed it and began pacing, stepping on the fallen papers from earlier. Lestrade quirked an eyebrow, but then took a long look at the self-proclaimed consulting detective. His jaw was tighter, his eyes constantly darting between shriveled details of Lestrade's office, and there was a light tremble to Sherlock's hands as he tore the blue scarf from his neck and shoved it into his pocket. If he hadn't known Sherlock for as long as he had, then he wouldn't have noticed it; Sherlock was _worried_.

"Well, Freak?" Sally demanded, tapping her foot in irritation.

"Sally," Lestrade warned quietly, still watching Sherlock with a wary eye. Sally shot him a questioning look, but said nothing else. Thank God. If she said anything remotely offensive or mentioned John, Sherlock would have stripped her week down with his words and let Lestrade in on a little secret he would have been better off not knowing. It was bad enough he knew Sally and Anderson were having some sort of… fling. He shuddered at the unwelcome thought and waited patiently for Sherlock to begin.

"Got anything else?" Lestrade asked carefully. Sally now looked confused, but thankfully kept her mouth shut.

"No," Sherlock said quietly. He still paced the length of the floor while he spoke. "His blood sample was clean, if not a little high on sodium content, so he wasn't poisoned, as I already knew. His attacker came from behind him and knocked him out with a blunt object. Most likely with the hilt of a handgun. Obvious. From the cups I saw he'd been shot at, but it wasn't aimed to kill. I've got nothing from the scuff marks on the ground… too many shoes have been on that pavement for me to get a detailed analysis."

Sally scoffed and Lestrade held back a groan. "What are you talking about, Freak? There hasn't been a homicide in a month."

Sherlock instantly stopped his pacing and snapped his head to her direction, his eyes hard and cold. Lestrade didn't even interfere when Sherlock closed in on Sally, backing her into the wall and bearing down on her.

"Right now, Sally, I would appreciate some peace and quiet. John has been kidnapped by the only criminal _I _have never been able to catch, and if we don't want a dead army doctor to file away to collect dust like you do every one of your boyfriends, then I suggest you either use your brain and think about where James Moriarty could reside or keep your stupid to yourself." Sherlock then spun away from a stunned Sergeant Donovan and resumed his pacing across Lestrade's now crushed files.

Even after a few minutes of Sherlock's irate (and amazingly precise) movements, Sally still hadn't dropped her shocked look; her brown eyes gaped, her mouth puckered open, she didn't even move from her braced position on the wall.

"Do close your mouth, Sally, you'll attract more than just Anderson's joystick." Sherlock had said this without even looking at Sergeant Donovan. Sally promptly closed her mouth, and without a insult to throw back other than an angry scowl she stalked out of the office, her low heels stomping on the carpeted ground as if each step had Sherlock's face underneath it.

"Charming, Sherlock," Lestrade said. An unreadable emotion flashed over Sherlock's features before settling into his usual mask. His pacing stopped and his forced clenching of his jaw loosened. Former evidence of a Sherlock who actually cared disappeared into his classical good looks and usual charm.

Sherlock turned to face Lestrade. "Obviously there is nothing else to be done until we receive further information," he said in his customary monotone. His hands no longer trembled as he looped his scarf around his neck and scowled. "Which means I have to go visit the British government. I wouldn't be surprised if my brother has actual footage of the kidnapping."

With long strides, Sherlock made his way to the door, but Lestrade caught his coat sleeve before he could leave.

"_Now what?_" Sherlock practically snarled. Lestrade was forcibly reminded of his preteen nephew when his video games were taken from him.

Lestrade let go of Sherlock's sleeve and raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I was just going to ask whether there's anything I can do to help, Sherlock. I would like to see John in one piece as well."

Sherlock gave Lestrade one of his unnerving, piercing glances that seemed to go right through him, and Lestrade tried his hardest not to fidget uncomfortably. After a moment, Sherlock nodded. "I'll let you know if anything turns up."

Knowing his past experiences with Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade seriously doubted this. "No you won't," Lestrade countered, unable to hold his opinion in.

He was rewarded by a quirk of Sherlock's lips in an attempt at his usual infuriatingly smug smile.

Lestrade watched with connecting eyebrows and hands on his hips as Sherlock Holmes exited his office with inborn speed. That was one of the strangest meetings he had had with the intelligent man, and he had seen Sherlock blundering around a crime scene, high on cocaine and heroin (and he _still _managed to solve a murder case within five minutes). In the near six years he had known Sherlock Holmes, he had seen an angry Sherlock, a bewildered Sherlock, an amused Sherlock, and once (upon first meeting Molly Hooper at the morgue) an extremely weirded out Sherlock who had no idea what to do with himself (Lestrade had to explain—which was a very painful process—that Molly had a crush on Sherlock. Sherlock had been appalled when the theory behind a crush was explained). With John, he had actually seen a happy and laughing Sherlock (Lestrade didn't even know he had possessed that power unless he was using it for manipulation, and yet, there they were, giggling at crime scenes. Christ. Instead of one bratty child, he was dealing with two teenage girls).

But never had he seen Sherlock so close to falling apart. Sherlock had always been the aloof sociopath, unfeeling and only looking certain ways as a way to keep up appearances. But Lestrade learned to read the man's emotions in his eyes… but this time, he didn't need to.

Lestrade then wondered why on Earth Sherlock felt the need to come all the way to Scotland Yard, only to pace irately in Lestrade's office and tell him what he had already been told.


	3. Chapter 3

3

"Wakey wakey eggs and bakey!"

John's eyes fluttered groggily, still heavy and deep with sleep. At first, he had been expecting to be in his comfortable bed at 221B Baker Street, but stiffened when a cold, hard surface pressed against his back, holding him up and causing an ache to permeate through his bones, dulling his muscles to a light numb from lack of circulation. His left shoulder twinged as he shifted his head away from the hot breath that washed over his face. Nimble fingers entwined in John's hair, causing uncomfortable shivers running down his spine. Who was touching him without his permission?

A voice tutted disapprovingly above him. "No, no,_ no_, John, this just won't do. You can't be ignoring your king."

John's eyes flew open as the fingers pulled painfully at his hair, straining the already sensitive nerve endings at the back of his head where he had been hit with the blunt of a gun. John resisted cringing when he felt some of his hair crustily part with his injury, opening in the wound once more.

John glared at the man before him, mustering up as much malice as he could into the dark, insane gaze of Moriarty. Moriarty's face was so close to John's that he could clearly see a small pock mark on Moriarty's nose (childhood chickenpox, then) and the stubble that grew in along his jaw. John tried not to think about how uncomfortable he was to having a criminal mastermind's face so close.

_At least he's not lying on top of me_, John mused.

Moriarty smirked as if he could read John's thoughts. Somehow, John didn't think it would surprise him if the consulting criminal could.

The self-righteous smirk pushed the fear that clung to the edges of John's mind away and let in hot, boiling anger at the man and his past actions. This madman killed people because he was bored. He treated death and murder as if it was all one big game… and it was revolting. Sure, Sherlock may have had an obsession with it, but Sherlock was the one to figure out the meaning behind the actions… not administer them himself. Sherlock saved people. The psychopath in front of him was a cold-blooded bastard, and John wanted nothing more than to head-butt Moriarty (and maybe break his nose in the process), but Moriarty was a dangerous, dangerous man, and doing so would result in his immediate end.

_Yes, John, very good. Don't be stupid_, Sherlock's voice whispered in his mind, because head-butting a criminal mastermind who had the potential to outsmart Sherlock Holmes would be a very stupid thing to do. And despite how stupid John could act sometimes, John was a smart man, and he very much knew that Moriarty only took John so Sherlock could come out and "play." John only had to stay alive long enough for Sherlock to come and get him, and to do so, he would have to be a docile and unresponsive captive.

However, it was proving more and more difficult the smugger Moriarty looked every time he saw the psychopath's insane and overly active impressions.

"Get off me," John croaked as calmly as he could, trying to push down his irritation and anger (and fear, but he was trying not to think of that at all) of Moriarty. His throat burned as he spoke and he licked his lips, trying to rid of the gritty aftertaste of thirst. His tongue felt thick and dry, as if he had swallowed a handful of cotton.

Moriarty smirked, flicked his tongue to John's cheek, and slowly rose away from John's uncomfortable position on the floor, looking down at John as he straightened his gray suit. Disgusted and angry, John quickly sat up and swiped at the wet spot on his face, feeling filthier than he ever had before and wishing for a good hot shower complete with a twining of steel wool. He would need to scrub his face doubly hard to rid himself of the monster's DNA.

Moriarty began to circle John slowly, his unsullied expensive shoes clicking sharply on the damp, cement floor. Each step seemed to be a taunt at how long John would have left. One day… two days… three days…

"A few years ago I had a client in a spot of trouble," Moriarty began airily, his hands held behind his back, reducing the crinkles in his suit and giving the man an utterly relaxed look.

Six days… Seven…

Moriarty was talking to the room, it seemed, as he wasn't looking at John. John raised his eyebrow as Moriarty continued his narration, trying to interpret the meaning behind his words. And Sherlock said Moriarty always had some sort of meaning… always. "He was king of his operations, directing his knights, _firing_ _down _his competition with such ease he had enough time for entertainment."

At ten days Moriarty halted in his stride, right in front of John's bare feet. A mad smile collected on his features, wrinkling the lines on his forehead above his eyebrows and bringing an uncanny sparkle into his eyes. His face was still turned away from John's. "But one day, one of his jesters told a joke that wasn't funny. At. All. The jester laughed and giggled and _danced_ as he escaped, and all of the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't find him." Moriarty's grin widened. "But I did."

The way Moriarty said those little three words sent shivers down John's spine—it was cold and mocking, torturing John with the poorly hidden meaning that Moriarty could hide John well enough he would _never _be found.

Christ.

Moriarty gave a humorless giggle and began his slow-paced circling once more, and John lost count of the clicking of the shiny, black shoes as his panic mounted. The clicking irritated him—it grated on his ears like nails on a chalkboard, and he just wanted it to stop.

It kept going, and John gritted his teeth.

"The king was entirely grateful towards me in the end," Moriarty pondered, tilting his head to the side and his grin dropping into his usually bored expression. "Paid me handsomely in silks and jewels, though I don't really have use for the money. I'm the emperor, you see. I own everything…" he rotated his head on his neck and angled his face towards John, a smile playing about the edges of his lips. "Even _you_."

John bristled from his sitting position on the floor and glared up at the man in front of him. Moriarty shrugged and moved his hands from behind his back to his pockets. John noticed that none of them bulged to conceal a weapon. Over confidence? A set of body guards?

_Probably both, _John thought grimly.

John shifted his gaze to the door where shadows of about five tall, incredibly muscular (John wouldn't have put it passed them being genetically enhanced) men stood, their backs to the door, their arms held stiffly in front of them, their heads unmoving on their thick cords of neck. Escape was looking close to impossible.

"Oh, don't worry, I treat my possessions with utmost care," Moriarty said, looking down at John, his mad grin clashing with his cold eyes. "Unfortunately, I can't say the same for my royal guards out there. Just like Sebby, they enjoy the grunt work."

Moriarty's grin widened at John's stoic silence. "You can talk, you know. I won't bite."

"Said the cat to the mouse," John grumbled.

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed. The damp walls somehow absorbed the laughter, but it didn't decrease the uneasy chills that swept through John's veins. "So you _can _play this game with me. I can see why Sherlock keeps you around." He brought a pale finger to his face and tapped his slightly scruffy chin. "I _had _begun to wonder. At first, I thought you might have been just another pretty face."

John said nothing.

"Back to the silent treatment, now, are we?" Moriarty said. He didn't look any more perturbed and his grin stayed easily fixed on his face. After a minute of uncomfortable, awkward silence, Moriarty waved his hand dismissively. "No matter. It won't last for long, not unless you value your life."

John blinked. That was blunt.

Moriarty gave John a fleeting grin and snapped his fingers. John instantly got to his feet. The five men who had been waiting outside immediately dismissed themselves from their posts and entered the small, damp cellar with John and Moriarty. Their arms were bigger than John had originally thought, and he felt a small bout of apprehension as they stood behind Moriarty (who was a dwarfed child compared to the huge men), their faces hardened and their eyes cold. All of them had huge, square jaws and completely shaved heads, which looked somewhat odd as they were in immaculate suits. John would have counted them all as quintuplets if it weren't for the fact that they all had different nationalities and slightly different body builds. But it was so hard to say for sure as they all held themselves exactly the same. John glared at them, daring them to come any closer. It was that or cower in fear, and he wasn't going to do that in front of Moriarty.

John turned his attention back to Moriarty, whose grin still hadn't faded from his face. "I know, it was a bit blunt for me, wasn't it? I wanted to see if you could catch it. Very good, Dr. Watson. If you weren't so untouchably loyal to Sherlock, I would keep you for my own."

John very much wanted to gag at this, as he would have killed himself before he joined this mass murderer, but kept his jaw set and his fists clenched by his sides. His back and shoulder muscles tensed as the atmosphere changed from its dreary damp standstill to an aggressive hostility; the air around the place instantly chilled, and none of the men had moved. John was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this; those men weren't there for Moriarty's protection.

"Now, Johnny-boy, let's set aside all previous attractions and start on a clean slate," Moriarty said, snapping his fingers again. Two more men (looking very much like those standing behind Moriarty) came in through the slab of wall carrying an unblemished chrome table between them. Two chairs of the same metal were stacked on the table, seat down on the surface with the legs sticking in the air. The men set the table down with an audible _clunk_ and simultaneously set the chairs upright at either end of the table. Once John got over the creepiness of how identical their actions were (and impressed against his will), he vaguely wondered if the men practiced these things beforehand.

Moriarty strode over to John's side of the table and pulled back a chrome chair. It scraped against the cement and grated against John's hearing and made his head throb. At Moriarty's grin, John felt a muscle jump in his jaw; the bastard was doing it on purpose.

Moriarty gestured to the chair he had pulled back graciously. "Sit down, John."

The area just below his left eyebrow twitched. "No."

"Don't make me force you," Moriarty said, raising one eyebrow. "Really, John, this is just bad manners."

"So is kidnapping an ex-soldier to get a detective to play a game with you," John said irritably, ignoring the pain in his leg. Christ, why did it have to start hurting now? "You could have just asked him."

Moriarty gave a one shoulder shrug. "Boring!" he trilled.

That was a reaction that was just so _Sherlock _that it turned John's blood cold. Of course, Moriarty was more enthusiastic about it, which made it easier to separate his friend from this annoyingly clever psychopath, but it still irked him.

"Besides, I don't think he likes me that much," Moriarty said, his lip slipping very quickly into a scowl. It was so sudden that John thought he had imagined it. Moriarty's hand still hadn't left the back of the chair. "How very quaint that he sees a friend in you, John Watson," Moriarty continued in an almost gleeful mutter. "You're nothing, you're _ordinary_… why would he notice someone like _you_? What have you got that I don't? It can't be the intellect, though you may be a bit above average than some… it could be because he needs a test subject for his precious experiments, but he doesn't experiment on you all that much… it can't be for the ride, the freak is still a _virgin_ if you'll believe that…"

John's heart clenched with every word Moriarty spoke, and his throat burned a bit. His words had cut deep, but John kept a strong front, only blinking once to rid of his itchy eyes. John had been wondering why Sherlock still put up with him, as John was not as smart as Sherlock, nor was he that much of a better fighter (though he _was _a great shot). John was only an invalid from Afghanistan, crippled, lonely, and nightmare ridden. But John saw Sherlock as his best friend, and even if Sherlock had dropped him for someone else to occupy his time, John would still think of him as such (it would hurt, granted, but Sherlock would be forgiven. Damn him).

John didn't even _want _to know how Moriarty knew that John had been subjected to a couple of experiments (was the flat bugged? He would have to remind Sherlock later), as relearning this information from his enemy was a tad creepy. And John didn't even know if the last bit about Sherlock being a virgin was true… they never really spoke of their pasts (it was behind them, really), but it wouldn't shock him if Sherlock was. He was always oblivious to attention from unknowing women working at the diners from out of town. The only woman who he gave any attention was Irene Adler, and even she he hated.

Moriarty was still talking, but the hurt within John immediately turned to anger. "Maybe it's because I have a working moral compass," John suggested before he could stop himself.

Moriarty froze in his ramblings and an irritated flash crossed Moriarty's face, making him look comparably more dangerous than the stoic and unmoving men behind him. John was reminded instantly that he was dealing with an evil version of Sherlock; smart, powerful, cocky, and severely mentally unstable.

John was more unnerved when Moriarty smiled sweetly. "Sit down."

It wasn't a request this time. It was a warning.

"I don't want to sit, Mr. Moriarty," John said stiffly. Not even Mycroft could make him sit if he didn't want to.

An unsettling smile came about Moriarty's pale features. He looked positively happy that John had refused, and this was worrisome.

"Me'Shell, Roger, will you do the honors?" Moriarty asked, linking his hands behind his back and stepping into the shadows of the room. His gleaming smile and the glitter of his eyes were still visible from within.

John automatically tensed and bent his knees slightly as if readying himself to run or to absorb impact. His clenched fists rose as the two muscular men (Me'Shell and Roger, presumably) strode forward, their bulky arms held stiffly to their sides, their faces still unchanged from their hardened glare. As they came forward, John wondered if they were the biggest of the seven henchmen in the room (of course they would be), and they seemed to grow taller and broader with every step.

The darker of the two swung heavily, but John was ready and ducked under it, side-stepping when his other fist came around to cut him in the side. However, John walked right into the other man's fist, which dug itself with bruising force into John's stomach. John blanched from the pain, grunting and seeing stars, and he swung blindly in a newfound rage.

He grunted in satisfaction when his punch landed on the darker man's temple, but it was short lived as another swelling hit seared across John's cheek, making it throb painfully merely milliseconds afterward. In the back of his mind, he knew that he had gained a deep bruise, but it was hard to catalogue his injuries when he was fighting for his life… and losing. John threw his weight forward, dodged, threw in a few good hits that _must _have hurt the other men (as it made John's hands bleed and throb), shouted, and kicked out for good measure when one of the men picked John up by the throat and threw him so hard his ribs gave as he slid across the floor. It was over in a matter of minutes, and soon the adrenaline rush had disappeared, his punches grew fainter and his breath was hot and labored as it came from his mouth.

With one last punch from the darker of the two henchmen, John's knees buckled underneath him and he fell face first to the floor, refusing to groan in pure agony as his bones and muscles ached and trembled. His breath was short and burned as his lungs tried to expand in his bruised ribcage. Dirt and the musty smell of damp cement entered unwillingly to his nostrils, but John didn't even bother to shift his face to give his aching nose a break. Besides, his new injuries were hot, and the freezing floor felt nice and cooling against his inflamed skin.

"Pick him up and set him on his throne," Moriarty's repulsively excited voice came from the haze of pain.

John tensed as huge hands clamped under his armpits (making sure to put pressure onto his new bruises) and dragged him bodily over to the pristine and innocent-looking chair Moriarty had pulled out for him earlier. He was dropped onto the seat, and with difficulty, John raised his head up from its drooping position on his chest to glare at the now sitting and gloating Moriarty.

Moriarty, with a smug of a smile, leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, clasping his hands in front of his lifted knee. He looked entirely too comfortable in the presence of rock-like men and a prisoner.

"I did try and warn you," Moriarty said with an air of nonchalance. John glared at the man again and wished he had the energy to reach across the table and throttle him. Moriarty centered his gaze to the ceiling and sighed heavily in disappointment. "But you listen just as well as a renegade jester."

John stared at the man, waiting for him to get to the point. Moriarty really did get tedious with his damn riddles all the time.

"Oh? Do you tire of this game already?" Moriarty inquired with a raised eyebrow. He closed his eyes briefly and smiled. "Very well then, we'll get straight to the point. I want you to tell me everything you know about Sherlock Holmes."

John was stunned. His mind cleared, despite the haze of pain that hung over him in waves of aches and suppressed moans, and the only thing he could think of was where the hell that question could have come from. It wasn't related to any of what Moriarty was talking about before, but, John realized a second later (pain really did slow down the thinking processes) that he should have expected the question. He was, after all, Sherlock's only friend. But Sherlock was never one to talk about his past, and neither was John. It was an unspoken mutual understanding about each other that if they wanted to talk about it, then they would… on their own time.

Moriarty lifted a hand to his ear, cupping it as if it could help his hearing abilities. "What was that John? You wanted another good, old-fashioned beating? Well then, I guess I'll have to include Blade this time. Coming from his name, you can probably guess what it is he's best at."

John felt his eyes widen, though he had schooled his expression to remain completely calm (if not a little tense). He allowed weariness to seep through as Me'Shell and Roger bound his arms and legs to the stool with coarse, steel wire—something John was not eager to risk struggling against.

Blade, a man with black, humorless eyes and a hardened face, advanced slowly to John, a switch blade flicking to its full range within his hands.

Dread and panic filled John as he fixed his gaze from Blade to Moriarty, who had a disgustingly ecstatic look upon his face as he watched John as a helpless man with no other route to go.

"Do you plan on talking now, John Watson?" Moriarty asked pleasantly, his head now propped up by the heel of his hand, looking a bit like a student sitting bored in a lecture hall.

If Moriarty was within spitting distance, John would have spit in his face. Instead, he said, "You'll never get anything out of me."

"Predictable," Moriarty sighed (but looked creepily excited at the same time). "Not too deep, Blade. Make them just barely a paper cut. I want to see him _squirm_ like the little pest he is: a little pest underneath my boots."

The next few hours were filled with stinging grimaces and the occasional shout of pain. There was also the overwhelming fear that Blade would slip and cut in too deep… the fear of this happening was the equivalent of someone holding a loaded gun to his temple. The noticeably sharp blade trailed along his jaw, down his nose, tracing the contours of his lips… each without breaking skin, each emitting a startled and frightened gasp from his lips, sometimes of tired relief when pain didn't come. Every sense of his was heightened, his eyes trained on the shining blade as if it was the only thing in existence, even though he knew he should be concentrating on something more important, like escape plans.

However, every second of fright and irritating discomfort was worth watching Moriarty get more and more frustrated with John's lack of cooperation.

"DAMN IT, JOHN!" Moriarty screeched, his slicked back hair falling in front of his eyes as he snarled and bared his teeth. He slammed down his hands on the chrome table, the resulting crash echoing dutifully through John's tired ears. "_Tell me his greatest interests! His secrets! ANYTHING!"_

John's breathing became more and more ragged with every cold trail the blade of the switch knife gave as it rolled tauntingly about his torso, over the already thin lines leaking red down his abdomen muscles and heaving chest. The blade was already a little slick with a sticky red residue, and John convinced himself quite thoroughly that it was strawberry jam, not his blood. It made things easier that way.

Despite his aching limbs and his sore wrists and ankles, John merely smiled. "Piss off," John said conversationally.

But instead of throwing a temper tantrum as John expected, Moriarty froze, seeming to realize how unprofessional he looked, and tugged on the bottom of his Westwood suit to straighten the crinkles. He smoothed his hair back as the flush drained from his cheeks.

"We're done for today, my knights," Moriarty said. The henchmen all gave a simultaneous nod and exited the room without speaking a word. John noted with satisfaction that Me'Shell (John figured he was the darker skinned henchman) had lovely, new, and colorful additions to his face.

The men all waited out the door, and Moriarty came in to pat John on the left shoulder. John cringed as he felt damaged nerve endings and scar tissue mesh together in a war of agony. John bit the inside of his cheek to remain conscious.

"Your loyalty is _adorable_," Moriarty said with a sneer. "But really, it won't get you very far."

John only focused on his heavy breathing that rattled in his chest as if he had been running very fast for a very long time. It shook against his bruised (and a bit cut up) ribs. Every time he inhaled, his "paper cuts" stretched significantly before cooling in relief only slightly as he exhaled. His skin felt very much on fire, and John could bet a million quid that this was just the beginning.

"If this is how it's going to be every day," Moriarty continued, whispering into John's ear. His breath was hot on his neck and his words sent a cold sweat to work along his brow. "Then we'll have to resort to more… _timely _methods." John could feel his smirk. "Sebastian and I have fantastic plans for when that comes to light." Moriarty backed up and wriggled his fingers. "Until tomorrow, my dear."

John watched him as he walked out, leaving him tied uncomfortably to a chair, his skin prickling unpleasantly, and wondering what the hell Sherlock could be doing at the moment.


	4. Chapter 4

**I just have to say thanks for the awesome reviews/alerts/favoriting! You guys are all amazing and supportive. On with the show!**

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4

[Are you ready to see me now, dear brother? – Mycroft]

Sherlock had been pacing the streets of London, dirtying his shoes in muck and grime and filth, racing down alleyways as his mind processed every bit of information he had learned in the past couple of hours. He logged it all away in the entrance of his Mind Palace so every bit of information was just an arm's reach (figuratively) away. But no matter how many times he went through the information he had, no matter how many scenarios he had imagined (and almost immediately deleted), Sherlock couldn't get rid of the need that had come up during his review: he just didn't have enough information to determine where in the world John was now.

Which meant, very grudgingly, that Sherlock needed access to the CCTV's stationed in London (no doubt tracking his very movements this minute)… which meant a visit to Mycroft Holmes, the British Government—his insufferable Big Brother.

He kicked aside a lone plastic bag. Sherlock had hoped he wouldn't need _dear Mycroft's _help, but as Sherlock replayed his and Moriarty's conversation at the pool (John had dubbed the adventure "The Great Game," and Sherlock could not disagree it was an admirably perfect title, even if it left a sour taste in his mouth), he could not see another option.

With a long suffering sigh of the slightly bitter London air and the stale smoke of a cigarette not five feet away from him (which did nothing to staunch his already active urge to smoke one of his own—he was already wearing three patches, and John never did think wearing more than one was good for him), Sherlock replied.

[Unfortunately – SH]

Not only five seconds after he had sent the message had a sleek, black car (new model, most expensive that money could buy… Mycroft really did have a huge ego) pulled up next to him. Sherlock looked up at the nearest camera (attached to the left corner of the coffee shop's roof) and gave it the most withering glare he could manage. Sherlock could feel his features twist more effectively than he ever had before, and Sherlock noted with hidden amusement that he must look completely feral, especially since that woman who had just passed him (serial adulterer, concerned with her appearance, weak ankles—childhood injury—uncomfortable in her heels… possibly aiming for a relationship, preferably a rich man to care for her children as she was unmarried and sure to stay that way) sped up her pace with a frankly frightened look thrown back at him as she walked away.

Sherlock looked down at his phone, which had just trilled with the promise of a new text message.

[Just get in the car, Sherlock – Mycroft]

Sherlock held his chin high and narrowed his eyes as he yanked the door open and stepped inside the government car. He noted the fresh and clean smell of brand new car leather and the expensive beige interior that was meant to impress whoever the government felt like kidnapping. The driver was new as well (Married, two—no, three—children, spent time in the army but not ranked very high, seems to have good moral standing). Sherlock smirked into the rearview mirror, catching the eye of the new driver. Said driver gulped audibly and stepped on the gas, a nervous twitch in his left eye. _Hmm… A very new and very nervous driver… Mycroft must have disposed of another spy. How tedious._

Sherlock spared a glance at the handsome woman beside him, her brown hair falling in curls around her shoulders, her black suit matching the phone she constantly texted upon, before he stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched. Mycroft really needed to get over his power complex. It was extremely annoying.

"So what are you called today?" Sherlock asked as he glared out the heavily tinted windows, watching as London whipped past his eyes. The people out there were untroubled and oblivious, not observing the world around them to see the world. There were so many secrets to uncover, and many of them were oh-so interesting, but no one else seemed to notice… or want to, anyway.

"Ah—Ophelia," she said. Her fingers clicked away on her phone. Sherlock honestly had no idea how many people she could be texting at one time to occupy her attention thus. She didn't have a string of lovers, nor did she have a ton of friends (she was working as a background force… her identity would either have been destroyed or altered)… Sherlock deleted the deductions of Not-Ophelia from his brain and focused on the task at hand… must not get distracted…

"Lovely," Sherlock commented. It was better than Anthea, at least. He spared her another glance and deduced her day just for something to do (so much for not getting distracted). Her curls, though natural, were a bit frizzed today in the humid air and there were dark bags under her eyes covered by the cake-like make-up on her face (long night, zero to two hours of sleep, recently napped—hopefully with her texting urge turned off—judging by the crinkles in her clothing by the shoulders, stomach, and buttocks, but self-conscious about her image due to her work and long ingrained stereotypes by her parents). Unbrushed breadcrumbs on her lap and stains on her fingers suggested she ate a sub sandwich (Italian on white, yellow peppers and messy sauce) on her way here (in a hurry and not allowed to eat in front of clients, especially her boss's little brother. Interesting). The twitch in her brow suggested she was annoyed, though she still wore her professional smile, even as she moved her thumbs across the pad of her phone in frightening speed. It must have been a world record to be able to text that quickly.

Sherlock's lip rose up a bit at the thought of John's happy exclamation of how fantastic he found Sherlock's talent, but then Sherlock remembered John wasn't by his side this time. His almost-smile turned into a frown. He had grown so accustomed to John's presence by his side that it felt awkward and just plain _wrong _without him there.

He would never tell John this.

It wasn't long until Sherlock found himself inside the expensive and decorative quarters of the Diogenes Club, the gilded doors slamming shut behind him. Not-Ophelia glided forward, leading him through the unnaturally quiet area of elderly men reading their newspapers in complete and utter peace, texting on her phone as she did so. Sherlock, bored already, started to nod to every painting of a supreme government official on the walls and to the marble busts, deducing their lives as he went (this one had gum disease in his later years—this one had at least two lovers… as a married man—this one killed his brother and was not the least bit sorry about it). Finally, Not-Ophelia knocked on the door to Mycroft's spacious office with her right fist twice, showing Sherlock in once Mycroft bid them inside.

"Sir, Sherlock here to see you," she said without looking up from her phone.

Sherlock stepped inside, not bothering to hide his distaste of the room. The walls were generically beige, the carpeted floors a supposedly comforting brown (horrifyingly dull). A large desk (adorned with a globe, several classified folders—closed… Mycroft still didn't trust him… smart man—and wayward pens. Mycroft had been busy, then) sat at the head of the room beneath a large window (letting in a large amount of sunlight and throwing notice of rolling greens and swaying trees… how quaint… Mycroft was actually _missing _the outdoors). Leather armchairs the same color of the desk faced each other, and without further introduction or greeting, Sherlock threw himself down onto the firm seat, crossing his arms and ankles without bothering to take his coat off. Mycroft soured at Sherlock's lack of manners.

"Very well, Lindsey, off you go," Mycroft said in his most bored voice and with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Not-Ophelia looked up from her phone to glare at Mycroft. Sherlock found her lack of texting very satisfying.

Mycroft gave one of his best business smiles. "Oh, don't be like that. My brother figured out your real name in the first five minutes of meeting you."

"Four and a half, really." Sherlock shrugged, giving the livid Personal Assistant a wry smile. "Not much of a challenge. Do work on being more interesting, will you?"

Not-Ophelia continued to glare at them both as she backed out of her room, phone in hand. Once the doors closed with a heavy slam, Sherlock faced his brother, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny. Mycroft Holmes had bags underneath his pale eyes just like Not-Ophelia's, except he didn't have the liberty to use cosmetic powder to conceal his (late night—no sleep, knowing the family curse of insomnia, but it was more than that keeping Mycroft Holmes awake… had he started a war again? Damn. The traffic will be terrible). Mycroft's ginger hair was slicked back and cut in its usual office-approved shape, but some of the strands straggled free, as if he had spent a lot of time running his hands through it (so he's worried about something, but not so much that it was a war. Dull). The navy suit he wore was a bit tight around the middle, and quite a few buttons at the top and bottom were undone (gaining weight _again_? For a man so self-conscious about his weight, he sure does nothing to ensure that he diets adequately. Perhaps Sherlock could get a prescription from John telling his brother he couldn't have cake anymore. The thought made him smile). His shoes were a bit dusty from walking the grounds, but there was no mud, nor was there any indication that he had left this office in the past few days (busy, stressed out, mental stimulation with fresh air. Sherlock scoffed. And Mycroft said he hated legwork).

Sherlock's lip twitched as he noticed his brother deducing his week as well. Time to start the game then. Black goes first. "The diet's doing well, then?"

Mycroft scowled slightly, but maintained his government-trained poker face. "You and I both know the answer to that, dear brother."

"Then it's going swimmingly." Sherlock forced his lips into a mocking smile.

"Yes, of course," Mycroft allowed, raising an eyebrow. "How is John?"

Sherlock's stomach fell to his toes as if it had been pulled from his body with a pair of pliers and dropped. That was a low blow. "You're the last one who saw him, Mycroft," Sherlock finally cut out, trying to keep the burning in his throat and the simmering anger at bay.

"I?" Mycroft said, looking down at his trusty umbrella and twisting it on its nose. It formed a circular indent in the plush carpet. "I haven't seen eye of neither you nor Doctor Watson since that dreadful mishap with Irene Adler."

"Your cameras," Sherlock said impatiently, narrowing his eyes.

Something glinted in Mycroft's eye as his lip twitched. "Yes, those… you really do need to learn how to better take care of your toys."

"John is not a toy," Sherlock growled, keeping his voice low as to not shout. "He's my friend."

Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, posing his elbows in his knees. He quirked an eyebrow and smiled that _damned _smile again. "I don't think you know the difference," he said in a controlled whisper.

"Yes I do," Sherlock said defiantly, tilting his head up and slitting his eyes. It did nothing to lessen Mycroft's figure. His brother really did need to learn how to lay off the cake.

"Tell that to your sailboat, dear brother." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Or, how about your wooden sword?"

Fury unlike any other rose within him, shooting through his veins more effectively than any drug he had taken before. It raced from his toes to the tip of his head, wiring him and giving him the incentive to run away, to go and find Moriarty himself and bring his corporation down. It conquered his mind and dulled his thinking; his brother was impossible! He was so frustrating! How did he remember that, anyway?

"I was _five_, Mycroft," Sherlock said scathingly. He didn't know why he had to defend his childhood dream of becoming a pirate, but he just did.

"And you still are." Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, placing both of his hands on his knees as he grinned smugly, his pale eyes still cold as they appraised Sherlock's every move. Sherlock hoped Mycroft deduced Sherlock's desire to break Mycroft's slanted nose. It would make such a big improvement.

There was a pause in the atmosphere, chilling the air around them until the only thing left in the world was him and Mycroft.

"Friends," Mycroft said heavily, pulling a tired face that may or may not have been faked. More than likely, it had been. "… Are not something you can break and buy another of, Sherlock."

"Like you would know."

Mycroft raised his chin in acceptance of this fault. Sherlock's lip twitched in triumph.

"We're wasting time," Sherlock said at last, glaring at his brother. How _dare _Mycroft waste John's valuable time with trivial matters such as a 'childish sibling feud,' as John liked to call it. Didn't Mycroft realize that any second wasted could be a second too late to save John? "Right now, John is in the hands of the most dangerous criminal mastermind, all because Moriarty is too bored to find a hobby."

"Like you?" Mycroft quipped, looking down at his blasted umbrella as he spun a hole into the ground.

Sherlock grasped the ends of the leather armrests, his grip unbearably tight according to the deathly whiteness his knuckles took. Rage roared in his ears—a ringing that could be stopped. Never before had he so much wanted to punch his brother for saying such a thing like that. Sherlock corrected him, "_I am _nothing _like him."_

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's very loud and stony sounding outburst. "Dully noted."

"Damn you, Mycroft, do you have surveillance on John's kidnapping or not?" Sherlock demanded, no longer feeling civil enough for small talk. The wall of detachment he usually placed between himself and emotions was slowly crumbling, and his brother was doing nothing to help the matter.

"Yes."

Sherlock blinked. "Then why didn't you send someone out to protect him? Why didn't you tell _me?_"

Mycroft sent him an appraising look. "You really should learn to check your messages before you delete them, dear brother."

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face as his fingers slackened against the armrests. With a nearly inaudible groan, Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips and placed his thumbs underneath his chin, almost in a prayer. For the first time in his life, resenting his brother had come off as worse. After a few minutes on focusing on his breathing, Sherlock said quietly, "the footage?"

Mycroft nodded and rose from his seat, taking his umbrella (weapon—hidden knife inside) with him. He swung it once in the air and disappeared around the door. Sherlock eventually got up to follow, walking slowly toward the unknown room in his brother's office.

Closing the door behind him, Sherlock took a quick glance around the place. Nearly all of the cream colored walls were compiled of computer screens, all viewing certain angles of streets and buildings: one outside Bart's, showing the usual contenders and participants, one in the lab and one in the morgue (Molly was dissecting a new dead man with a gun shot wound. Interesting. Perhaps he should ask her for a sample of his blood); a few involving Scotland Yard; one outside 221B Baker Street and another in their living room (Sherlock seethed at this—he _knew _there was a camera somewhere inside the house—and John wouldn't be too happy about this either. They would have to remove it later); and various amounts of cameras on the corners of almost every street in London. John was right; Mycroft _was _a creep. That, or he had an unhealthy obsession with Sherlock's health.

Sherlock smirked at the obvious cake crumbs on the keyboards of the computers. Speaking of health… "You couldn't resist, could you, Mycroft?"

"Lindsey always makes the best Lemon Meringue." Mycroft didn't look at him, busying himself in the constant clicking and codes of the keyboard. Sherlock was watching and recording every bit of pass code he learned from his brother… but he knew everything would be changed the next day so Sherlock wouldn't have access to it. The bastard. And Mycroft said _Sherlock_ was stingy.

"How come I've never had any?" Sherlock asked out of pure curiosity.

Mycroft paused in his typing and looked at Sherlock, both of his eyebrows raised. "I thought that would be rather obvious."

"I don't feel the need to out-deduce you today, brother."

Mycroft sighed, returning to his keyboard. "You don't eat, Sherlock. It would surely be a waste."

"John eats," Sherlock added in defense automatically before realizing what he had said. Sherlock scowled as a smirk fluttered across Mycroft's gelatinous features. Sherlock vaguely wondered whether punching the British Government would get him arrested or scolded at. Maybe he would be placed in a mental asylum again. Sherlock rubbed his chin; now _there _was a thought. Fascinating. Maybe John could join him this time; it could be an experiment.

Mycroft finally sat back in his chair, his manicured hands resting softly on his bulging stomach. "There you are, dear brother."

Sherlock straightened in his seat and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table and pressing his fingers to his lips. The CCTV camera roved in and out until it focused on John, who was relaxed as he walked, carrying two cups of coffee, one in each hand. There seemed to be a spring in his step as he walked, and he had a wide, idiotic smile (from the side angle view he could see). John must have been having a good day, for his smile was contagious. Even Sherlock couldn't help the fond smile from his lips.

This went on for a minute or two until John had visibly tensed as he walked and his back became ram-rod straight. John seemed unaware of this for a moment, and his stride slowed minutely, nearly running into a woman with curly hair and a bad temper. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off the friend he hadn't seen in a little over two days. John had looked healthy and whole and very unfrightened until he fumbled the coffee cups for a moment to settle them unmovingly in his left arm while he took out his phone. John texted while he walked, ignoring the people around him.

Sherlock almost smiled when he saw some of the tension release in John's shoulders, but it was quick lived when John looked down again to read Sherlock's text. He was beginning to text back when a blur shot across the screen, and almost immediately afterwards, black coffee flew into the air, causing John to jump back with a bewildered and slightly panicked look on his face. The phone and the coffee cups fell from his hands as John crouched expertly and swiftly moved to the wall of the building, hiding a bit behind the decorative iron fence shielding John from the steps to a house on Baker Street. His hands were splayed behind against the wall as if it were the only thing holding him up while his chest heaved, his head turning sharply to any sound and his eyes darting around the nearly vacant street.

After a moment, John's face hardened and the panicked look was gone, only replaced by a light curiosity. Sherlock would have laughed at the familiar expression if the situation weren't so dire. The curious expression was replaced by an indignant scowl as a hobbling old lady shook her fist at him, and Sherlock couldn't help but let out a deep chuckle. If the old woman was a man, John would have given her a piece of his mind.

He felt the intense gaze of his brother on the back of his neck, but Sherlock refused to acknowledge him. Sherlock's lip twitched as Mycroft huffed in annoyance. But the satisfaction of successfully irritating his brother disappeared when John crouched down to the large coffee stain on the pavement and picked up a green and holey cup. Sherlock could see him freeze and imagined his eyes darting around once more (his face was overcome by the shadows, hence the small bit of guesswork), and as he was about to stand up, a tall figure crept behind him, a small handgun ready in his hands. In one instant, the man knocked John out by a blow to the head, and John fell to the ground as if he were a marionette whose strings had been cut.

The street was entirely empty except for those two, and a black, nondescript car pulled up almost to the curb. A huge, dark skinned man with thickly corded muscles in his arms loped out of the car (the car shook a bit as he got out… the man must have been extremely built to have weighed so much) and opened the door to the back seat. The huge man waited patiently as the tall, thin man reached under John's shoulders and dragged him to the car. John's head was slumped against his chest and the man had a strange expression on his face (excitement? Surely not) as he flung John into the back seat without respect, slammed the door shut, and ran to the other side of the car.

Here, the screen flickered to darkness.

Sherlock sat, a bit shocked, and turned to his brother. Mycroft raised an eyebrow patiently, thought Sherlock knew he was anything but.

"Where's the rest of it?" Sherlock asked, his voice low. "There has to be more—why did you cut it off? Answer me!"

Sherlock's voice had risen slightly, but Mycroft's face remained as impassive as ever. "The CCTV feed had been forcibly blocked by one of Moriarty's men. A minute later, taping resumed, and street life commenced."

Sherlock breathed through his nose and forced himself to relax. John. This was about John. His hatred for Mycroft could wait. "Do you have any more recordings of this?" he asked through his teeth, each word painful to get out as he nearly pleaded with his brother to help him.

Mycroft examined his fingernails and brushed them on the edge of his jacket. "Five, in fact. I assume you desire to observe them?"

Sherlock nodded curtly and turned his face back to the blank screen. He rewound the video back until he could see the man sneak up on John, and froze the screen. Sherlock studied him for a moment. The man was taller than John (and perhaps Sherlock himself), with hair cut in the same way as John's and an erect posture. Military man, then. A long, thin gun was strapped to his back, indicating this man was a sniper. Crack shot. Was it possible that this was the same man who had shot John's coffee cup to scare him?

Sherlock nearly groaned in frustration. There was always something! He was right about there being at least two people involved with John's kidnapping, but he was thinking one man had shot at him while another waited to sneak up on him. Sherlock was wrong; the sniper and the kidnapper were one and the same. The second man drove the car. The shot had come from across the street, but the CCTV didn't show where the sniper had gone. So the man knew where the cameras were and knew how to sneak around them. So why let anyone see the actual kidnapping?

Of course! They _wanted _Sherlock to see the actual harm done to his friend. Sherlock grit his teeth and fast-forwarded the scene until it reached the part where the man's face could be partially seen as he dragged John to the car. Sherlock zoomed in to see a rough, blurry face, but he could still glean the details: battle worn, a bit tan, blonde hair lighter than John's, and starkly muscular.

"Is this man familiar to you?" Mycroft's voice cut in.

Sherlock scowled as he admitted a grudging, "no."

Sherlock could sense Mycroft's smirk behind him. Mycroft scooted forward in his chair and typed a few complicated (but easily remembered) strands of code until four other angles of this same scene popped up, giving Sherlock a more in depth look at John's kidnapper.

"Sebastian Moran," Mycroft continued as if he had an audience. Despite his natural talent to ignore his brother's flair for the dramatic (and his words… who liked to listen to Mycroft talk, anyway?), Sherlock focused on his brother's words as he studied the face of the kidnapper. "Second Lieutenant underneath a Captain John Watson during their flight in Afghanistan."

Sherlock sat back in his chair in shock, his mind blank for a quick moment, before snapping his attention to his brother. He had been so sure this related to Moriarty—a way to make Sherlock's heart burn. Was Sherlock wrong for once? "What happened?" Sherlock demanded curiously. According to John, army men were supposed to be close knit as brothers… so why would Moran willingly kidnap John with such a disturbing expression on his face?

Mycroft coughed into his fist and straightened the lapel on his jacket. "Lieutenant Moran had been there for a while, stuck in the same position for years on end. Doctor John Watson, liked by everyone, was efficient and rose in ranks fairly quickly. There are recorded accounts of Moran complaining that he should have become captain… jealousy, I presume, and resentment for a younger man assuming a higher position… people are so _petty_ these days…"

"But that is not enough to cause a man to willingly kidnap someone," Sherlock said slowly.

"No…" Mycroft said. "There was an incident years ago… John probably doesn't remember much of it as he seemed to have deleted a lot of his memories of the war, but this incident caused quite a scandal within the community."

"Go on."

"Dr. Watson found out something very peculiar about Sebastian Moran, something that would be considered illegal… Dr. Watson found out and dismissed Moran outright for…" Mycroft set his umbrella against the chair he sat on and pulled out a file from the desk beside him. He took a good amount of time flipping through the pages (Sherlock grit his teeth in irritation—Mycroft knew Sherlock was impatient), shaking his head in mock sorrow at a few hidden details before freezing and giving a wry smile. "Ah… 'unorthodox misconduct.' That was during John's first year as Captain."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and pressed his lips to his steepled fingers. "He created himself an enemy."

"Quite," Mycroft agreed. His expression soured. "But the man has been basically untraceable since he had been fired. We usually keep track of potential threats like him…"

Sherlock snapped his head over to Mycroft and raised an eyebrow.

"But you don't need to know that." Mycroft coughed in near embarrassment. "It was almost as if he disappeared off the face of the earth… until…"

Sherlock watched interestedly as Mycroft searched the computer, digging through file after file until he clicked a final time, bringing up a slightly blurred picture that made Sherlock's blood run cold.

The picture was taken a few months before. It was of two ordinary looking men chatting idly as they wormed their way through the London streets as if they were everyday commuters from the subway. Sebastian Moran was there, dressed in a polo shirt and jeans, walking right next to a bland, forgettable man in a sweater vest.

Unfortunately, the man next to him was not unforgettable. Far from it, in fact.

It was Moriarty.

* * *

Molly Hooper, if she was to be completely honest with herself, was not feeling all too well today. Her throat was constantly scratchy, her forehead burned, and occasionally her nose dripped with icky sickness. Every once in a while, she would have to sneeze into the collar of her shirt, and every thirty minutes she had to take a break to blow her nose, scrub her hands and face raw with stinging soap, and return to the dead bodies she was examining.

Molly loved her work. She just couldn't get enough of the sterile smell of the chemicals in the morgue, the clean clinking of her tools as she worked, and typing up the reports to every person she had learned about that day. Molly loved learning the lives people lived—she could do so by just taking a peek underneath their skin. She didn't have to talk to them or take their judgment… all she ever had to do was to peel back a few layers to get to their heart (no pun intended).

Dead people didn't judge, nor did they say horrible things. Molly sighed and blew back a fallen strand of hair. Okay, so she was a little strange, preferring dead people to live ones. She had never been squeamish about blood and guts, like most girls were. She was never particularly interested in make-up (though she would put some one for that handsome man who liked to hang out in the morgue almost as much as she did). Molly knew she was socially awkward, but that didn't mean she didn't care for people just because they enjoyed saying mean things. So Molly stayed behind the scenes in order to provide some closure to the people out there in the real world. Everyone was happy.

But, Molly supposed as she retied her lank, mousy brown hair into a messy bun at the nape of her neck, it did get lonesome sometimes, having no better company than the dead. She lived alone… she was estranged from her parents, who had moved out of the country, so she did the best she could. Molly always wanted someone to rely on, someone who would tell her that she was special…

When she first met Sherlock Holmes, the first thought she had was _wow_. He was tall and classically handsome, with his dark hair and long eyelashes contrasting sharply with his smooth, ivory skin. His eyes were a lovely, piercing green and those cheekbones… if she could; she would spend all day looking at that face. Or slapping it.

And then she found out he was a super smart consulting detective who enjoyed the dead as much as she did! He was a perfect match for her!

However, her affections went unnoticed. It was her luck that he would have to be gay.

A few months later, she dropped that thought as well. He wasn't interested in men, either. He wasn't interested in _anyone _unless they were dead at a crime scene. Sherlock Holmes was asexual—no relationships, no flirting (unless it was for information… it was never genuine, after all), no friends, for that matter. She didn't even think he had a family; it was almost as if he was plopped onto Earth as he was now: an adult man with the good looks of a god and the crazy smarts of one too. Molly always though he was an angel fallen from Heaven (that's how he was in her more desperate fantasies, anyway).

And then Sherlock brought in his friend John, and she had never seen any two people with such a close relationship. John actually made Sherlock _laugh. _No one had ever been able to do that before! And if they didn't look and act so differently, she would have guessed they were brothers. While Sherlock was tall with dark hair and a cruel streak, John was short, blonde haired, and kind-hearted. Even when he still walked with a cane, John reminded her of a great big teddy bear, and all Molly wanted to do when she saw him was to give him a great big hug.

She didn't do that, of course, as it could be very awkward for the both of them, but John was adorable, and he deserved hugs, and Sherlock was dark and dangerous, and all she wanted to do when she saw him was to knock him to the floor and shag the lights out of him.

Shaking her head and smiling, Molly sniffled through her cold and dug back into her work (man, her death puns were on fire today!), cutting open a man's stomach to dictate what Mr. George Powers had eaten and when. He was a nice fellow, but he had gotten a little sick and died. The old folk's home said it was suicide. It was sad.

Molly was thirty minutes into her analysis when a sharp clank startled her. Molly jumped at the change in the quiet atmosphere and dropped her scalpel onto the soft, pink tissue of his stomach. Molly frowned; she'd have to clean that later.

Molly looked up when she extracted her tool from the body and stilled: one of the chairs she had put away earlier in the day was in the middle of the floor, reflecting off the pristine surface of the linoleum beneath her closed-toed shoes. A pink card (her favorite color!) was placed right in the middle of the stool, standing up and blank.

Curious and Mr. Powers forgotten, Molly peeled her rubber gloves off with a satisfying smack (she loved that sound so very much) and placed them in the bin next to the slab. Her shoes squeaked as she cautiously made her way over to the chair, and with a shaking hand she picked up the card with the blank front and opened it.

Her heart thumped in her throat and she smiled. It was from her ex-boyfriend, Jim. Jim from IT. He was very nice and they had so many things in common (he even liked her cat!), but it turned out he was gay. It saddened Molly; why couldn't anything good ever happen to her?

In neat, calligraphic writing, the card said:

_Dear Molly,_

_I want to apologize for leading you on earlier this year. You really are a great person and I loved hanging out with you… it's just I must have been in denial about who I really am. But, if you'd like, we can still be friends? I've heard the best friend a girl can have is a gay best friend. I can be yours, if you'd like. Maybe we could go for coffee, and then shopping? I've seen this great eyeshadow earlier that would just make your eyes pop. And maybe a certain consulting detective would notice you!_

_Friday, Starbucks, at noon? I think you'll enjoy their new Pumpkin Chai Latte._

_Jim_

Molly bit her lip. Sherlock had said to cut it off to save the pain, but that was because she was interested in Jim romantically, and Jim wouldn't have been able to return her feelings. But Sherlock never said anything about having Jim as a friend.

A warm, bubbly feeling crawled up into her chest that filled the loneliness void that the dead could never fill. She hugged the letter to her chest, feeling the smooth, pink paper beneath her fingertips as if it were as precious as silk.

Molly now had a best friend she could tell anything to, just like Sherlock had John.

Molly smiled. She would like that. She would like that very much.


	5. Chapter 5

5

Three days. That was how long John had been missing from Sherlock's side and in the destructive hands of the most dangerous criminal mastermind the world had ever seen.

If Sherlock had been counting (which he had in the depths of his Mind Palace), John had been missing for exactly three days, five hours, twelve minutes, and thirty-three seconds. It had been this long, and Sherlock _still _didn't have any idea where John could be. He had religiously checked John's blog and his own website for any strange messages, but nothing popped up except for the annoying line from _theimprobableone_ asking when Sherlock would move out of 221B Baker St. As usual, Sherlock ignored that infernal man and focused on more important things, such as finding out where in the world Moriarty was hiding his only friend.

But what bothered Sherlock the most was that he hadn't heard from Moriarty. Not once. Usually, the man would set him up a game, watch him dance. But Sherlock hadn't gotten _any _information about where they possibly could be… and it was driving Sherlock insane.

This meant Moriarty didn't want Sherlock to find John. That was troubling in itself. What bothered Sherlock the most was that he didn't know _why _Moriarty had taken John. There must have been an ulterior motive to watching Sherlock 'dance.' It just wasn't clever enough.

With no further leads after hours upon hours of reviewing the kidnapping tapes, Sherlock was feeling antsy. He could only imagine what they were doing to John at this very moment… and he knew Moriarty could be creative if he wanted. Also, the Moran character, after reading his file, looked like the perfect tool in Moriarty's arsenal: a soldier with his heart set out on revenge. In Moriarty's eyes, it would be a win-win situation.

"Sherlock, why are you in my office?"

Sherlock looked up from the screen he had accessed to the graying Detective Inspector at the door, who had stopped in the middle of his process of removing his long coat. Heavy, bruise-like bags lay under his eyes and his eyelids drooped a bit more than normal (tired… 2—no, 3—hours of sleep last night... why hasn't anyone been sleeping? Normal people sleep, don't they?), and his trousers were creased and crumpled (no sleep last night then… his clothes show signs of excessive sitting—a stakeout, then. Drugs bust?). A dusty, bitter smell wafted from his coat, but his fingers were devoid of tar stains and his teeth were decently healthy looking, so he had been around smoke, but wasn't smoking himself (Good thing, too, or Sherlock would have to call him a cheater. They had stopped smoking together, after all). He had been in Cardiff last night, judging by the soil clinging to the soles of his shoes and the lack of rain on his coat (and the fact that the evidential odors on his coat hadn't been washed away), staked out in front of a warehouse that could very well have been empty, according to the gloomy, depressive state the man seemed to be in. Lestrade had freshened up in the New Scotland Yard bathroom, which explains the cheap toothpaste he used this morning (or three minutes ago), and the man's nervous tick of his forefingers showed that Lestrade had yet to have a coffee this morning… or breakfast.

This examination took less than a second, and Sherlock was back to the clicking of the keys on Lestrade's keyboard. "Research," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at the screen that had popped up. Clean. Completely clean. Useless.

"Research—Sherlock, are you on the database?" Lestrade sounded angry. Was Sherlock not supposed to be on the database? Dull.

"Yes." With a few more clicks, he had logged off. Useless.

"That's classified information!"

"Yes."

Lestrade had finally slipped out of his jacket and threw it to the ground, where it lay creased and crumpled (and dirty). And Lestrade wondered why Sherlock's coat was nicer than his.

"It's password protected!" Lestrade said in vexation.

Sherlock's response was a wry smile and a condescending look. Please. John's passwords took him more time to figure out than the New Scotland Yard database.

Lestrade's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Fine. Fine. Do what you want. I can't stop you anyway."

Sherlock's lips twitched. Quite right.

To Sherlock's instant disdain, Donovan barged into the office, a file held out in front of her as if it were more offending than that of her love life, her dark, frizzy curls bouncing behind her, her heels clacking on the carpeted floor as if she owned the place (she really needed to rid of her superiority complex. It was almost as bad as Mycroft's. How very annoying).

"Sir, suicide this morning, Lauren James, ninety-three years old. On her note there's an apology to us…" she trailed off as she handed Lestrade and looked to Lestrade's desk, where Sherlock sat, leaning back in his chair, feet up on the table, crushing a few official documents. Her features scrunched together and her dark eyebrows furrowed into one line before she settled into her usual look of loathing. "I didn't see him come in," she stated, turning on a very accusing look for the Detective Inspector.

Lestrade shook his head. "Yeah."

Donovan shifted her weight to one foot and placed her hands on her hips (asserting authority? Displeased? Please, Sally, he's your boss), jutting her lip out in defiance. "Is that all you've got to say to that?"

Before Lestrade had the time to reply, Anderson in his self-importing glory strutted into Lestrade's office, handing the Detective Inspector another file. "Sir, I've completed the blood analysis on that businessman case." Anderson gave a prideful smile (which was enough to make small children cry) and stood taller. "Sir, you wouldn't believe it! It was—"

"His sister," Sherlock said, trying to hurry things up. He came here to speak to Lestrade, not to his irritating lackeys.

Anderson's ugly, imposing face whipped around, and Sherlock swore he felt a few of his brain cells melt away. "What—yes, that's right—but what's the freak doing here?"

Faced with two angry partners, Lestrade fidgeted around with his wedding ring (his wife moved out and she's not coming back. Why was he still wearing it? Ah, habit and false hope, but not much hope with the nervous habit he'd just created. Just throw it in the Thames) and sighed. "Well—"

A sharp burst of static cut through Lestrade's answer and quieted everyone in the room. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and followed his ears to Lestrade's computer screen, which had flickered from its off position of black blankness to reveal a set of gleaming teeth.

"Everyone shut up! Don't speak, don't move, don't even breathe." Sherlock commanded without removing his eyes from the screen. It had flickered again, but the face upon it was more recognizable now. He felt anger rush to the surface of his skin as well as apprehension for what he was about to find.

"Why?" Sally asked disdainfully, her arms crossed and her tongue rolling over her straight, white teeth underneath her lips.

"Donovan, quiet now!" Lestrade barked, his hands on his hips and pushing back his coat to reveal his white polo underneath. Sherlock felt a twinge of gratitude towards the Detective Inspector; he knew the true value of silence.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the screen, which flickered a few times (this time in a quicker procession), and static-ridden noise echoed from the speakers, as well as the undertone of a few voices coming through. The scene was becoming more clear now, and his anger from before boiled to a new intensity when he recognized Moriarty's face right in front of the camera, blocking the scenery from view.

Sherlock stiffened a little when he felt the whispers of a body or two behind him, and without turning around he took in the scents (fading tobacco smoke and cheap cologne, sickeningly sweet sugar scented perfume, and burned chemicals upon layers of hair gel). Lestrade was on one side of him, leaning over the corner of the chair to get a closer look at the screen. Sherlock imagined a look of bewildered incredulity on his face as he let out a "what the hell…"

The last two scents were of Donovan and Anderson, who were on his left, keeping their distance but nosy enough to not leave the scene when something exciting was going on.

Finally, the flickering stopped, and Sherlock caught a full view of Moriarty's insanely grinning face, his dark eyes shining in excitement and… something else. The stubble the criminal mastermind usually kept on his jaw and underneath his nose was gone, but his hair was slicked back as usual, and he wore a white, button up shirt covered minutely with his black suspenders.

"Ah, Sherlock! Just the jester I wanted to meet!" Moriarty exclaimed in his sing-song voice, clasping his hands together. Moriarty's eyes flicked from Sherlock's right and left, and Moriarty's grin widened. "And you've brought _friends_! The more the merrier, I say."

"What's going on, Freak?" Sally's voice came from his left. Her voice was still full of contempt, but she was curious at the same time. Anderson hummed in agreement beside her.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but didn't answer. They really should learn how to make their own deductions and to keep their mouths shut.

Moriarty's grin didn't lessen. "What? No introduction? Are you giving me the silent treatment as well?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly as he considered Moriarty's words. What exactly did he mean? With a tight voice and without removing his eyes from the screen, Sherlock said, "Sally, Anderson, Lestrade, meet Jim Moriarty."

There was a collective sharp intake of breath.

"O-ho!" Moriarty exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline and his eyes widening comically. "So they _have _heard of me, oh Sherlock, you really flatter me, you really do."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, his long, pale fingers clamping the edge of the desk. His knuckles whitened and his shoulders tensed, but he refused anger to show on his face. "What could you possibly want that you don't have?"

Moriarty smiled like a child who had known he'd done a bad thing and thoroughly enjoyed it. "That's the problem, isn't it, Sherlock. Everything's so nauseatingly _perfect,_" he sneered, his lip curling unpleasantly. His jaw clenched minutely. "It's just so _boring_, isn't it? Of course, I don't have _you _here with me to break the monotony of my kingdom…"

"Stop flirting with me," Sherlock said calmly, though he would like nothing more than to take John's revolver and shoot a hole through Moriarty's head. But he had to play the game… was he going to finally get an assignment so he could get John back?

Moriarty paused in his ecstatic ramblings and cocked his head to the side. "Oh? Would you rather me flirt with someone else?" Moriarty let out a small giggle and shifted his body to the side, revealing a dirty cellar room with a swinging light bulb and a familiar, short, blonde haired male tied to a chrome chair that had seen better days. Sherlock froze as he took in John's features, which were bruised (some of them bleeding), his shirt ripped at the collar and hanging a bit off of him, as if he had lost weight. Reddish-brown rivulets seeped through John's shirt, and when he picked his head up from his chest, his blue eyes were weary with pain (and… irritation?) as he panted heavily, as if breathing was restricted or pained him. Sherlock tried to tone down the intensity of his deducting skills (he couldn't just turn them off, however) to spare himself the pain of knowing John's condition. Starvation, dehydration, sleep deprivation, regular beatings, lacerations on the arms and underneath his shirt (the blood had spiked through the white fabric), and the fact that he was favoring his right side (had someone touched his shoulder?) all boiled down to it being more than A Bit Not Good.

"Oh my God," Lestrade muttered, sounding horrified as he stared at the bound and obviously beaten John. Sherlock noted that by the soft rustle of fabric and a slip of shoe soles on carpet, Lestrade had shifted his weight uncomfortably as he took in the scene before them.

Moriarty giggled again, and Sherlock cursed himself for letting his anger show through. Moriarty was still speaking, "Well, I've tried, but he doesn't seem to return the favor." He dropped his voice to a conspiring whisper and pressed his face closer to the screen as if sharing a controversial secret. "I think he plays for the other team."

Moriarty twirled away from the screen, revealing his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows and that he was wearing navy blue trousers that went with his usual Westwood suit. "Welcome!" he shouted, throwing his hands into the air, "to the emperor's proud production of the 'Jester and his Dog'!"

"This guy's more of a freak than Sherlock," Anderson mumbled quietly in his nasally voice. Sherlock's lip twitched at this (for once, he agreed with Anderson… the world had truly ended), but his attention was entirely to the screen, trying to figure out where the hell John was. The cellar was newer… barely used according to the cobwebs in the corners of the wall and the fact that it hadn't been used for storage (no scuff marks from boxes or furniture). The only use it got was from the last couple of days as John's torture chamber, it looked like. Dried blood speckled the walls and the floor. But a lot of underground cellars looked like that, and this one could belong to a library for all Sherlock knew. It was infuriating.

"Once upon a time there was a Jester," Moriarty began in his storytelling voice, his tone exchanging high and low pitches every now and then. With every word he inched closer to John, who had begun to struggle against his bindings. Sherlock felt like expelling his tea (he hadn't eaten much since John had been gone); he had never seen his friend so helpless, and Sherlock felt helpless that he couldn't be there to rescue him. "They called him The Lonely Kibitzer."

"The what?" Lestrade asked.

"Get a dictionary," Sherlock snapped, glowering at Lestrade before returning his gaze to the screen, watching John's every move. His friend seemed resigned to his fate, blinking furiously as if it would dispel the fear. But this confused him, as John's posture, though slumped, was tense and his jaw was set. That, and the fact that Sherlock had seen John in hostile scenes before, and he never once pretended to be an idle captive. What was going on?

Moriarty grinned again. "Now, The Lonely Kibitzer had a talent no one appreciated, and he was very, _very_ smart." He gestured with his right hand, and not two seconds after it was done, a tall, wiry man with blonde hair (Sebastian Moran, right hand man to Moriarty, known for his cruelty, military training, windswept hair—had he been outside? Sherlock would have to check the stats of high winds in England for today) came in, swinging a paddle on one arm and a cane on the other. He was flanked by two men who looked like they could swallow cows whole (the darker one with history of child abuse, unmarried, one child; the lighter one married, no children, possible ex-criminal escaped from prison. Charming company). There was just too much stupid in one room for Sherlock's taste (poor John).

"But no one liked him, you see," Moriarty continued, walking backwards slowly. He still faced the camera, visibly drinking in Sherlock's every move and expression with a hungry look twisted in his lips and eyes. "He was an arrogant sort, scaring others away until he had no one left. However, he was always right… and always in the emperor's way…

"But one day, he found a Dog," Moriarty continued, circling once around John's chair before stopping in front of John, but angled so Sherlock could still see his and John's face. John was still blinking sporadically, his jaw tense and his gaze locked to the computer camera that was surely in front of him. Moriarty crouched down so they were nearly eye level and pinched his cheek as if John was a chubby two year old. "So loyal and trusting," he simpered.

John looked particularly disgusted and jerked his head out of Moriarty's grasp. "Piss off," he said vehemently, looking square into Moriarty's eyes. Moriarty looked amused for a quick moment, then his face darkened into a very ugly look. In fact, he looked furious, and John's eyes widened for a moment.

"What's going on?" Donovan asked, her voice trembling. Sherlock almost looked at her in shock; he had assumed that because Sally hated Sherlock, then she would hate John too. But, then again, no one could hate John.

"Story time's over," Sherlock muttered, watching John's quickly paling face. Fear spiked in Sherlock's own gut—fear for John's safety.

"Sebby," Moriarty said in a calm, murderous voice. The tall, blonde man stepped forward with a face flushed in excitement and his choice of weapons stringing from his arm. "Would you like to remind our guest about _keeping silent_?"

"With pleasure," Moran said with a malicious grin adorning his face. He swaggered to John's chair, where John sat, hands tied behind his back, a look of pure venom Sherlock had never seen on his face before shining through his swollen bruises. Moran leaned forward towards John's ears, his face turned away from the camera so Sherlock couldn't read what Moran was saying. It was infuriating to see, when Moran had turned away, John snarling like a trapped animal, jerking against the rope that held him to the chair. What was it that Moran said to him?

"So, Captain, what will it be?" Moran asked in his hoarse voice, licking his lips in exhilaration. "The paddle or the cane?"

John kept his stoic glare, not blinking now, staring Moran down as if he were a lesser species.

"Why don't we ask Sherlock?" Moriarty asked as he slipped on his navy blue suit jacket. Sherlock jumped at being recognized, as did John, whose gaze flickered to the screen. His eyes softened a little and he gave a weak, reassuring smile. Sherlock felt his throat tighten. Stupid, noble, brilliant John.

Moran laughed, his arms lowering the offered choices to the ground. "You're right, Jim, he _is _sweet." To everyone's horror in Lestrade's office, Moran bent his knees and closed in on John and licked the side of his face. John's grimace hardened into a dangerous mask, one that promised pain. Sherlock had only seen this face once before, and that was when John had been holding a gun aimed at the Golem, who had been strangling Sherlock at the time.

"_You're sick!_" Lestrade shouted to the screen. Sherlock wished Lestrade would quiet himself, as it would only excite the captors, but he was having a hard enough time convincing himself not to shout out as well. "You're foul, you're…"

Then Moran was chortling, holding his stomach. Moriarty was grinning as well, buttoning up his jacket up to the middle of his tie. "What, you're just figuring that…?" But Moran wasn't able to finish that sentence, as John had whipped his head back and plunged his forehead to Moran's temple. Moran staggered back with a surprised bark, pressing his hand to his face.

"I already have a cane," John said sweetly, a lopsided smile breaking the split on his bottom lip. A trickle of blood dribbled down his chin and dripped to his lap, but he didn't seem to notice. A proud swelling rose within Sherlock's chest. _Way to go, John_! He cheered internally, but the pride died down as apprehension refilled itself again.

"Then I'll use the paddle," Moran said, no longer smiling. He thrust the cane into one of the larger henchmen's hands and took up the paddle, swinging it up by his elbow as if it were a baseball bat, the muscles in his arms tensing and cording together visibly underneath his tight shirt, and cracked it on John's shins.

John winced and grunted, the parts of his face that weren't yellow or purple from old and new bruises reddening from holding back yells. His lips parted slightly on the third crack, letting out a gasp. Lestrade gave a whine of distress and shifted his weight from his left to his right leg and vice versa, probably pulling his hair or tapping his fingers against his arms as he stared helplessly at the computer screen. Sherlock heard Sally give a small, dry sob. There was no noise from Anderson. Sherlock tried to distance himself from watching his friend in pain, but it kept bursting through his Mind Palace, making his body betray him in small forms like glares that burned in his eyes (making him see red… he'd have to ask John if that was a healthy symptom later) and the muscles in his back tightening. He noticed he was gripping a nearby pen so tightly the metal casing was starting to splinter under his grip. Sherlock dropped the broken pen the same time Moran dropped the paddle.

Moran's face was flushed and he was hunched over, breathing heavily. John was heaving as well, but his breathing hitched even more and his head hung weakly to his chest as if it was too tiring to hold it up on his own anymore. Without warning (accompanied by an unprecedented yelp from Sherlock), Moran cocked his left arm back and smashed it into John's face.

John groaned tiredly while Moran massaged his now bleeding knuckles (John's blood, Sherlock noticed, not his own) and stepped back, hiding his face in the shadows of the back of the room where the taller, broader occupants of the cellar stood.

Moriarty stepped forward, buttoning up his cuffs, not looking at the screen, those Sherlock could see a satisfied smirk on the criminal's face. "You know how people come to me for advice?" Moriarty began, curtly shifting down his sleeves to cover his wrists and placing his hands on the back of John's chair. Sherlock watched Moriarty standing behind his captive friend warily, unsure of what he might do… or make his minions do. John's head drooped tiredly. "Well, my dear Sebby had come to me as well, hmmm, not even a year ago, asking for help on revenge. He's not the sharpest tool in the box, but he is rather ruthless, isn't he, Doctor Watson?"

The only response to Moriarty was John's heavy, hitched breathing.

Moriarty smiled. "His letter was more of a 'Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me, to get back at the Captain who dismissed my talents.'"

John looked a bit pale.

Moriarty gave a small giggle as he pawned a hand mockingly through John's disheveled hair, which, to Sherlock's horror, was crusted with blood. John made no indication that he noticed, which caused a sharp pang of worry to reverberate in his stomach. Moriarty smiled down at John and pressed his face close to his ear, muttering in a traveling whisper, "Naughty, naughty. Apparently, Sebby wasn't being a very honorable soldier."

Surprisingly, John's head snapped up (Sally gasped from behind Sherlock). "Dishonorable?" John croaked, his face a mask of complete and utter rage that would make paint peel. "He was raping and shooting down innocent people! He was putting all of us in danger with his supposed solo missions!"

Moran chuckled darkly from the shadows. Sherlock clenched his fists. Anderson and Sally were muttering annoyingly behind him. If only they would _shut up! _Think, think, think! Where would Moriarty put John? Where were they now? Focus…

Moriarty shook his head, feigning sadness and disappointment. "Oh dear," he cooed, placing a hand on John's shoulder. John shrugged it off angrily as best he could with two hands tied behind his back. "Johnny must have forgotten about our little silent rule. You know what that means?"

John's jaw set and his brow furrowed in a glare to Moriarty, but Sherlock could see the desperation and lurking fear in his cobalt blue eyes. Sherlock flexed his fingers under the safe obscurity of the table.

Moriarty gave a gleeful, wordless cheer and clapped his hands. The sound of flesh slapping flesh ground something unforgivable within Sherlock. "Yay! The dunking chair! Oh how I adore medieval torture methods. They're just so... efficient." Moriarty gives an unnerving smile to Sherlock and the others behind Lestrade's computer as they watched, quite horrified, as Sebastian led out John, held by two impossibly muscular men as he struggled against their hold. Sherlock noted with some satisfaction that John got in a few good jabs before they pressed his arms to his side and frog-marched him out of the view of the screen (Sherlock tried not to think about how John's legs were pretty much motionless and trembling, unable to hold up John's weight without the rough support of his handlers).

Moriarty watched them leave with interest as he included an estranged whisper (almost like an afterthought): "I think next time I'll use the bull... anyway..." Moriarty turned to the web-cam once the promising and final slam of a door sounded through the computer. He lowered his voice to a conspiring murmur and leaned toward the camera, his hands in his pockets and a look on his face that was quite content. He licked his lips. "What John doesn't know is that Sebastian has already gotten his revenge."

A muscle in Sherlock's jaw against his will (damn his body for betraying him!). Though he hated the situation and he hated the sight of John getting hurt, he was curious despite himself. "What do you mean?"

Moriarty's face twisted into an expression of mock surprise, his mouth open in a comical O and his eyebrows had risen so far towards his hairline that wrinkles appeared on his forehead. "What? Can Sherlock Holmes not figure it out?" His eyes lost their glimmer and his maw turned down in a scowl. "I'm disappointed in you, Sherlock. I'm disappointed!"

Something clicked in Sherlock's head, and in a dead, bored, detached voice, he said, "Moran was the one who shot John back in Afghanistan. He put John out of commission."

Moriarty gave a proud smile and backed away from the camera, reaching down to pick up the cane from the floor to twirl it in his nimble fingers. "An eye for an eye, Sherlock," he agreed, grinding the thin stick of wood into the concrete ground without success. "I pulled a few strings and got Sebby darling enlisted into the opposing army to rid of our favorite doctor. Of course... the shot wasn't as fatal as it should have been... Johnny-boy _does_ have a knack for surviving. And I got a servant out of it! Sebby does everything I want him to... just because he loves the job! He is a brilliant sniper, you know."

"_Je-sus_," Lestrade gasped (nearly inaudibly).

But Sherlock ignored Lestrade's comment, as it would get them no where except in a handful of an excited, bored maniac. "He's more than able to help you fulfill your plans."

"Just so."

There was a pause where neither of the men talked. There was a shuffling of rubber soles on carpet, (Lestrade) kicking aside loose papers and muttering expletives under his breath. Strangely enough, Sally and Anderson were silent (it was a welcome miracle—now if only they would stay like that). Sherlock didn't take his eyes from the stationary chair in the cellar where his best friend had been merely moments before. "Let him go, Moriarty."

"But that wouldn't be as fun." Moriarty pouted as if he was a five year old child denied his favorite toy. Sherlock thought this was a very accurate metaphor for the psychopath… not himself. Mycroft would need to learn the difference… no doubt his big brother was watching this live feed as well. And in the process of having a copy made to send to Sherlock later.

"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded quietly, knowing this direct route would not work on the psychopath.

"Right now? Being strapped to another chair so he could be held underwater…"

This was said only to rile Sherlock up, and damn him, it was working. It reminded Sherlock of the danger his only friend was in, the only one who ever bothered to care. Sherlock refrained from slapping the table. "Tell me where he is."

Moriarty was still speaking as if Sherlock had not interrupted him. "…And you said you can deduce everything… my, my…"

"Why are you doing this?"

Moriarty beamed, showing an alarming amount of pearly white teeth. "Didn't you listen before, my dear?"

"Enlighten me."

Moriarty took his time sauntering up close to the camera, bending down so his face covered the entire screen like it did at the beginning of the episode. He winked and slowly licked his upper lip in a disturbingly sensual manner. "I like to watch you dance."

The screen flickered to darkness, and silence resumed. Sherlock sat at the computer, staring at the screen as if willing it to show his best friend again.

"Sherlock…"

"Get out." Sherlock ordered quietly, his eyes still on the screen. "Everyone."

"Why?" It was Sally this time, her voice still scornful as ever, but there was a distinct quiver in her tone that alerted Sherlock to how rattled she was. And Sherlock could care less. He had his John to find, and according to how… not good… he fared, John didn't have but a couple of days left…

"Lestrade, how fond are you of your computer monitor?" Sherlock asked, his voice so detached it even shocked himself. He sounded… hollow, as if his voice box had been cut through and taken out with a spoon, then hastily refilled, but done with such inadequacy that it was still incomplete.

The room was hushed, Sally and Anderson frozen in ridiculous facial expressions (do they truly wish to look like a fish for the rest of their lives? Anderson, do put your hand down. You look like a ninny), Lestrade carefully observing Sherlock as if he had expressed the desire to adopt a child. After a minute, Lestrade said in a cagey voice, "It get's the job done… why do you ask?"

"I'll have Mycroft replace it tomorrow." Sherlock forced one of his blandly fake smiles, closed mouthed and awkward, only going through the motions to keep up an appearance. It was exhausting.

"What?" Lestrade spluttered, running a hand through his silvery hair. "Why? What will happen to it?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock mused, giving the monitor an appraising look. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in thought. "Shattered completely against the wall. Stomped on a few times."

"Sherlock!"

Shelock felt himself starting to shake. His Mind Palace was slowly crumbling, the hefty, impenetrable walls rumbling and rolling with the force of an earthquake, a few holes finding their way through. His struggle to repair the walls was spotty at best, and he couldn't completely fix them unless he had a lot of time on his hands… and by himself. He didn't have either of these options, as John's life was hanging by a thread, and, well, he didn't particularly want to be left alone.

However, the feelings of desperation and anger were starting to bypass his mask, and he didn't want anyone to see him falling apart, especially Sally and Anderson, who would have filmed his demise faster than he could strangle them for trying.

It was all Moriarty's fault. Moriarty, the man who promised to make Sherlock burn, did it all because he was bored. Moriarty was going to kill John, and it was entirely Sherlock's fault. Why did he allow John to move in with him in the first place? If he had turned John away, John would be bored, perhaps lonely, but safe. Sherlock would have been alone and uncaring if Moriarty wanted to play games.

Lestrade's voice broke through his thoughts. Sherlock then remembered he was in a room with three other people, and he had a computer monitor to smash.

"Get. Out. Now. All of you."

"Sherlock…" Lestrade protested, making to place a hand on Sherlock's arm, but Sherlock tugged his body away so violently it made Sally squawk out in indignation.

"OUT!" Sherlock bellowed, and he barely waited for the three other spectator's to Moriarty's game to exit the office before he seized the harmless monitor and threw it with all his might against the off-white walls with the peeling paint (old building, insufficient funds despite the amount of solved crimes… the superintendent must be splurging again). There the monitor shattered, bits of black and wire scattering among the fallen papers, dropping with light thuds until the cracked screen joined the rest of the parts on the ground.

There Sherlock stood for about ten minutes in perfect silence, breathing heavily and looking at the destruction he had caused in his bout of uncontrolled emotion.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

Sherlock shook his head of Mycroft's well worn catch phrase (their entire childhood in a nutshell). He didn't need Mycroft at the moment, especially since he had recently told Sherlock that he always broke his toys… and now a computer monitor lay wrecked on the ground…

Sherlock shook his head again; John was different. John was not a toy, but a friend, and a friend who needed him, perhaps more desperately than Sherlock needed John.

His mind made up, Sherlock straightened his coat, wrapped his cashmere scarf around his neck with practiced ease, and ignored the inquiries from Lestrade, Sally, and Anderson as he exited Scotland Yard and into the drizzle of the night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Early update, yes, but everyone is just being so positive that I couldn't resist! Enjoy!**

* * *

6

John couldn't stop trembling that night.

His lungs burned with every breath he took; his throat ached and felt as if it had been run through with a cheese grater from all the coughing and wheezing he had done once he'd been allowed to breathe again. Every one of his muscles throbbed from the constant lack of oxygen and felt weaker than he had ever felt in his life. He shivered in the damp cellar and curled in on himself, trying to warm up in this impossibly dry air. John's hair was plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck, his skin was slick and pale for having been forcefully dunked in and out of freezing water nonstop until he passed out from exhaustion and no air to his brain.

Needless to say, John didn't like the dunking chair all too much… especially when Sebastian Moran was the one who had strapped him to the chair and pulled the lever. That messed-up man had a thing for pushing other people past the breaking point.

That night had not been John's first "session" with his old Lieutenant, and though John knew some disturbing things about the man, it just hadn't come to mind how mind-bendingly _cruel_ Moran could be. His razor sharp tongue knew exactly where to poke its hurtful words, shoving them through John's ears with as much ease if they had been scissors. Moran was sufficient in tools such as the switchblade (which, thankfully, was not used on John), any wooden extension, guns (another thing he did not use… otherwise, John would be quite dead), and his fists (which were by far Moran's favorite). And still John did not let one word about Sherlock Holmes pass his lips. Now that he had seen his best friend (even if it had been through less than savory circumstances), he had new hope; Sherlock was going to find him. And he _did _care.

The very thought filled John with unexpected warmth. He was very lucky to have a friend such as Sherlock.

He must have lain on the ground for more than a few hours, half-conscious and bleary-eyed from exhaustion, when suddenly the door to his cellar opened, revealing far too much light than was necessary and the very man John did not care to see.

Moriarty closed the door quietly behind him and walked with deafening purpose to the corner where John now lay curled up in a fetal position, trying to regain his warmth. John had no doubt in his mind that he would catch hypothermia. Not good.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

John didn't know how many days had passed in that cellar, but he did know enough time had passed for him to think the clicking of Moriarty's expensive shining shoes on the cement ground irritating. The very sound made John want to crawl up the walls and disappear through the ceiling just to rid himself of the noise.

The clicking of Jim Moriarty's shoes stopped by John's head, and knowing that ignoring the insane criminal mastermind was an impossible feat, John turned his head to peer up into Moriarty's grinning face.

"Hello Johnny-boy," Moriarty said in his mocking, sing-song voice.

John blinked, trying to clear his vision, but it was to no avail. "Hey, Jimmy," John said, frowning at the shifting shapes in front of his nose. He could still see the stubble on Moriarty's chin and the glint in the madman's eyes, but every few seconds the details would cloud over as if he couldn't quite figure out what to focus on.

John did notice, however, Moriarty's increased breathing and the angered grimace that transformed his face into something inhuman. It then smoothed over into a cold mask of indifference as he fixed his gray suit of creases and wrinkles. "Carl Powers called me Jimmy."

"And?" John asked, confused.

"He's dead."

John had nothing to say to this.

Moriarty's grin returned, and John remained in his uncomfortable position on the ground, curled up into a ball and practically defenseless. His neck was starting to form a crick from his inverted stance, but he waited patiently for Moriarty to go on. "How did you like the dunking chair, John? A refreshing dip, wasn't it?"

John coughed into a closed, shaking fist. "Wasn't my favorite, I'll give you that."

Moriarty's smile stayed and he held out a hand. John, knowing the criminal mastermind, ignored it and stood by himself, swaying slightly on his feet as he stumbled to the chrome chair. His shins smarted, the half-healed shallow cuts on his torso stung, his vision shifted in front of his eyes, and his muscles ached; John knew he wouldn't have been able to stand for long, and he needed to conserve his energy.

John let out a relieved sigh as he leant back into the cool back of the chair, trying to focus on the warmest parts of his body to keep from shivering. Moriarty watched all of this with a strange glint in his eyes, unsmiling, his hands behind his back. There was a long moment of stillness—no noise, no movements, and during this time, John realized Moriarty's henchmen weren't beside the insane man, nor where they guarding the door.

"What happens now?" Moriarty asked in a low, mumbling voice, almost as if he was talking to himself. His eyes shifted to the left as he thought, murmuring under his breath, "You won't tell me anything about your irritating friend, yet I let you see him. And again, you misbehave. Really, I think I'm being too easy on you… I spoil you rotten… I must be getting soft in my old age…" Moriarty's voice trailed off into the nothingness of the stale air around them, and John felt a certain disquiet. "I did say to be quiet, and rules are rules, my pet, and emperors _must _punish their subjects when they've been naughty."

"If it's all the same to you, Mr. Moriarty," John said, his voice cracked and harsh from his near drowning, "I didn't break your rules at all. You said to stay silent… and I didn't say a word to Sherlock."

Moriarty frowned. "I meant no communication attempts at all, Dr. Watson."

John felt a smile lift the edges of his lips and his eyes closed in fatigue. "Then you really should be more specific, Mr. Moriarty, because apparently your definition of quiet and mine are completely different. It might save us the trouble of a misunderstanding next time."

The was a beat of silence, and John was afraid he had pushed his luck too far. Still, he opened his eyes and yelped in shock: Moriarty's face was so close to John's that their noses were almost touching.

Before he could stop himself, John swung his arms behind him, and with all his might, clapped them simultaneously against Moriarty's ears (Military Defense Sequence Number Forty-Five: disable attacker by weakening his senses and sending his equilibrium into disorder. Attacker collapses with a hell of a headache and ringing ears. Dizziness makes it difficult to stand and walk, providing a quick escape window. Five minutes physical recovery time at the most. Ego recovery: a few days at least). Moriarty collapsed without so much as a grunt (strange… people usually scream at unprecedented pain), squeezing his eyes shut and bringing his hands up to his ears.

For a split second, John was in shock at what he had just done. He had just disabled James Moriarty. He had hurt the criminal mastermind who had no qualms about smothering children in Semtex. He didn't even think about the consequences that could come with his actions, for he could only marvel about one thing: about how quickly Moriarty had gone down. It proved fairly quickly that Moriarty was just a human with normal human weaknesses, just like everyone else. It was oddly… satisfying.

With this epiphany shouting through his mind, he looked to the door, expecting one of Moriarty's henchmen or Moran to come bursting through with fists raised and guns threatening his existence.

But none ever came. Thank God for small miracles such as Moriarty's overconfidence (though… it was almost insulting to John that he wasn't considered a threat).

Excitement and hope flared through John's tired veins, forcing adrenaline to take over his previously exhausted state, clearing his mind and sharpening his senses. The dusky dampness of the cellar was now a sharp odor that permeated everything… even himself. There was a metallic scent that made John want to gag… then he realized it was his own blood, which was on the floor and trickling down his shins. He took in category of his injuries, which were only muscle aches and bruised shins, both of which he could deal with. His head felt heavy and his mouth was bone-dry, but he pushed through it, sparing only a small glance to the disoriented (albeit well-dressed) man by his feet.

John ran.

He threw open the slab that was the door to be greeted with the silence of a blank and grey corridor. Nothing was on the walls except for locked doors leading to probable storage rooms. The stuffiness of the cellar was immediately dissipated with the rush of fresher (but still quite stale and musty) air of the hallway. John took a moment, looking to the left and right of him and listening hard for any change in atmosphere. After a quick breath to recollect himself, John decided to jog to his right, sparing an occasional glance behind him along the way.

John ran along the curve of the blank space of wall, stopping every few feet to jiggle the handles of doors that lay scattered unevenly among the vast hallway. A sense of escalating desperation overcame John's senses, increasing his breathing to hot, heavy pants and his heart rate thumping sporadically against his bruised ribcage, with every door he tried. Most of them were locked, and those that weren't revealed only a small closet, sometimes holding nothing but a mop or a water heater.

To John's dismay, there were no stairs behind those unlocked rooms, nor were there any rooms he could hide in safely without getting caught. No rooms he opened contained a phone, a landline… or a telegraph, for crying out loud (his imagination was starting to run with him. Though he knew how to work one, no one kept them around anymore).

Fear started to leak through to his focus, his adrenaline rush from before was starting to wear off, leaving a weary, tired John Watson in its presence. How long had he been out of his cellar? How much longer would it be until Moriarty alerted his minions he was missing? Was Moriarty himself looking for him?

"Hey, tiny. What d'ya think you're doing?" said a deep voice from behind John.

_Shit_.

With a sick feeling in his stomach that could not be anything else but foreboding, John slowly turned around to see the towering figure of Me'Shell blocking the rest of the hallway, a motionless silhouette against the grey expanse of wall.

John swallowed over the lump in his throat. "Ah!" he began in a throaty version of surprise. He cleared his throat hastily. "Me'Shell, come to join me for a walk? Just stretching my legs… you know how captivity goes… gets a bit cramped…"

John trailed off at the unresponsive henchmen and looked awkwardly to the wall. When he looked back, he saw Roger, the very white version of Me'Shell, had joined them.

With an uneasy smile, John said, "I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

The minions didn't answer. John didn't expect them to.

Defeated, John just relaxed his muscles and became basically boneless as the two towering henchmen reached forward and wrapped their large, dustbin-sized hands tightly around John's biceps with bruising force, dragging him so the top of his bare feet scraped the rough floor beneath him. John knew that he would soon have pink, shiny burns for such treatment.

When they returned to John's room, Moriarty was far from pleased. His eyes were hard and no longer showed the amusement they once had, his lips were pressed in a thin line. His face was paler than it had been, John noticed, but whether that was from anger or from the nausea he was sure to be feeling at the moment, John wasn't sure.

"You know, Johnny-boy, you are starting to become a thorn in my side," he said, watching disinterestedly as John was thrown to the cement floor.

Outwardly, John was glaring, but inwardly, he was shivering in expectation of the unknown and groaning from the aches in his limbs. He spat blood by Moriarty's feet. "And yet, Mr. Moriarty, you wear a crown of thorns."

Surprisingly, a grin broke Moriarty's face, too manic to be gleeful. "You _are _fun to keep around, my dear. Unfortunately," the grin faded from his face as he snapped his fingers. He looked almost regretful when Moran came in, arm muscles bunched in preparation for something John was sure not to enjoy. By his side, the ex-soldier held a wooden paddle not unlike the one he used before, except there was the difference of nails pushed through, creating a deadly and pain-inflicting weapon. Moriarty continued with a frown as John's attention shifted from the madman to his torturer, "you have a knack for misbehaving." With one swift motion, a cell phone was out of Moriarty's pocket. He held it up to the light and gave John a wry grin. "Shall we place in a call for Sherlock?"

He didn't wait for John to answer as he tapped the buttons for Sherlock's cell, explaining to his small audience in the room that he was going on speakerphone. Neither Roger nor Me'Shell gave any indication that they heard him. Moran grunted, not taking his disturbingly hungry gaze from John's face. John averted his eyes and looked at the phone instead, not having the stomach to look at his captors.

John felt his heart squeeze when he heard his friend's voice sounding worn out and aggravated. "_Sherlock Holmes_."

"Hello, Sherlock darling!" Moriarty cooed, the smile evident in his tone. John's fists clenched involuntarily. "This will be a short call, so let me do all the talking."

The only sound on the other side was the quick pauses in Sherlock's controlled breathing patterns.

"Good boy," Moriarty said proudly, looking very much like a five year old child who had caught his first frog. "Sorry to say Johnny-boy's been a bit naughty… though, I must congratulate you on training him well."

"_What do you mean?"_ Sherlock asked in a low, quick voice.

"He can play the game!" Moriarty gushed, sounding like he had been waiting to say this ever since Sherlock's voice echoed throughout the holding cell. "It makes it so— exciting!"

"_I want to speak with him_," Sherlock demanded.

Moriarty spent a second to look at his nails, a curiously blank expression on his face. "We all want things, don't we, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed irritably. "_What do _you_ want, Moriarty?"_

"Oh, I'm already getting what I want… for the moment," Moriarty said, smiling and pacing the floor by John's feet. "It's all jesters are for, aren't they, for the emperor to watch them dance?"

Rage flared up inside John, and for the second time that day, he couldn't stop and think about his actions until after they were done. Because Moriarty was pacing so trustingly on the floor by a seemingly catatonic John, he did not anticipate the inevitable part where John's foot stuck out, leading Moriarty to shout out indignantly in surprise and fury as he tripped and sprawled to the freezing ground, dropping his cell phone so he could keep his nose from smashing into the cement.

There was something sinister in the atmosphere as all eyes in the room trained on the fallen man in the Westwood suit, waiting with bated breath for hell to rise. Sherlock's breathing sounded tinny through the phone's speakers, and John could somehow sense the questions Sherlock would very much like to ask about the situation. Moran had stopped the swinging of his newest weapon of choice, and the two very muscular men waited with their legs shoulder length apart, their huge arms linked behind their back, and their brows furrowed, either waiting idly of instruction or in fear that Moriarty's anger could turn on them.

At long last, Moriarty rose, straightened his suit, and averted his eyes from John as if his appearance no longer entertained him. He looked merely bored as he strode over to his fallen phone. "Snap his ankle," Moriarty said, picking up his phone and placing it to his ear after taking off the loud speaker. Despite this effort, John could hear a piercing voice blaring through the speakers at Moriarty, making the madman smile. Me'Shell cracked his knuckles and advanced on John. Moran's unnerving grin became more so (surely what he had done to this fellow soldier had not warranted this sort of abuse). "And Sebby, do what you want with him. But… leave his face… we want him recognizable and able to speak, don't we, Sherlock?"

The heavy slab of a door thudded as it closed, leaving John alone with Moriarty's minions.

John inhaled sharply and stood quickly, searching for a way out of this room in desperation. With a broken foot, escape would be near impossible. Fear sickened his stomach, causing a cold sweat to slicken his palms and spike his abdomen.

His mind made up (and trying not to think of what was to happen next if his shoddy plan failed), John sprinted after Moriarty's exit, only to be caught around the middle by Roger and squeezed tightly (creating a ring of instant soreness on his muscles) so he would not escape. John's breathing became more labored as he became more frantic, kicking his legs and throwing punches that could not seem to make their intended targets.

"NO!" he shouted as Me'Shell's large, dark hand clamped around John's cold, bare foot, the warmth from the sudden contact burning his skin. His breathing became hysterical as he tried to yank his foot free, but John was at least three times smaller than the man who held fast, so it was a doomed mission from the start. In one quick movement of Me'Shell's hands, John's foot twisted at an unnatural angle and a sickening crack echoed through John's ears and entire being. He yelped at the instant pain (which was immediately replaced by a worrying numb feeling that sent an unpleasant prickling sensation from his toes to the middle of his calf) and stopped his struggle. Roger dropped a delirious and shocked John to the floor. John made no more attempts to escape his fate.

"I'm going to enjoy this," Moran stated, raising the nail-imbedded plank with his right hand.

* * *

Sherlock rubbed his eyes as he sat back in his deep green chair, staving the itchiness of tiredness away. His very muscles gave a slight jitter after having been in the same position of thought after that horrifying phone call (he wished John wouldn't make Moriarty so mad all the time, but at the same time, he was oh-so proud of his friend for standing up for himself), his bottom resting on his heels and his knees holding up his bent arms, his fingers glued together in an almost praying pose, pressed to his lips. He felt weary to his very bones, though he could not quite figure out the reason.

He sighed and relaxed his arms. Of all cases to collect exhaustion, it _had _to be the most important one. John's life depended on Sherlock figuring out where Moriarty was keeping him, and yet, he was given nothing but a few souvenir coffee cups and tapes of John's kidnapping and torture to sort through. Countless times he had flipped through the now battered file of Sebastian Moran (provided by his brother), learning anything he could about this sadistic man, but all the information he gleaned from it he almost immediately deleted; none of it was crucial to John's case. He hadn't gone through the video copy of the torture yet (which were also provided by Mycroft, damn him).

Sherlock spared a glance around his living space he shared with John, which barely held any change from when John had last been there nearly four days ago (exactly: fourteen hours, fifteen minutes, and forty-one seconds from being four days). John's chair was unsat in, cold and untouched; the kitchen was devoid of any experiments other than those to test the blood and coffee dregs he had found when he first scanned the crime scene; the kettle collecting dust on the stove. There was another layer of dust or two sprinkled about the desks and mantelpiece, but Sherlock didn't feel like screaming at Mrs. Hudson to get a move on with her dusting.

A scratchy noise like a badly tuned radio rang out within the house, originating from a point somewhere west of where Sherlock sat. Bewildered (and intrigued, he admitted quietly to himself), Sherlock pushed himself up and away from his chair, and on the tips of his toes he walked to the yellow smiley face he had spray painted on the wall in another lifetime.

When Sherlock was barely a foot from his artwork (complete with bullet holes), the loud static increased in frequency until it blended into one piercing dial tone, the pitch high and vibrating up and down, almost like an old fax machine. Sherlock furrowed his brows at the noise, wondering what the hell could have made that noise (and from within his wall, which was strange enough), his original ideas dwindling down in numbers until there were none left.

The sound stopped, and Sherlock kept still, unsure what had happened.

"Mrs. Hudson! Would you stop that racket?" he called, stomping commandingly to the door overlooking the rickety staircase that lead to 221B. He ripped the door open, ignoring its usual whine of protest (usually he told the door to shut up, but he was busy with a puzzle at the moment). "Mrs. Hudson!"

Silence and dust particles met Sherlock's shout; his and John's landlady was not home. Strange. Where was she?

With a shake of his head and the narrowing of his eyes, Sherlock closed the door behind him and returned to the living area. Something wasn't right, and he seriously hoped it wasn't all in his head. Quickly, he took inventory of his body: his limbs were still, his head felt pretty grounded (so he wasn't high), there wasn't any pain or itchiness of injection points, and his mouth seemed perfectly moist. So, no, he hadn't been drugged. He had truly heard the strange sound.

Sherlock was just wondering where exactly is had come from when a strangely familiar voice had entered his and John's living space, cutting deeply within Sherlock's heart.

"Evening. This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock backed away from the now sinister looking smiley face on the wall and placed his hands on his unruly, curly hair and gave a tug. He didn't want to relive this memory, not now. It was bad enough John's blank (soon turned fear-ridden) voice, tied with his body strapped with enough Semtex to blow the swimming pool sky-high visited him in his dreams (nightmares, he wanted to say, but he was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't _get _nightmares). However, they usually involved Sherlock saying the wrong thing, and, most often, with him being late.

Sherlock's own voice came through the walls, reverberating through a hidden speaker: "John, what the hell…?" And Sherlock was partly interested into solving how Moriarty had recorded their entire conversation that night.

"Bet you never saw this coming."

Silence. Then:

"What… would you like me… to make him say… next?"

And then the worst part, the very part that made Sherlock feel angry and helpless and so goddamn _desperate_:

"Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear… gottle o' gear…"

It made Sherlock's teeth grind together in frustration, because he _knew _at the point there was nothing he could do but to cater to this madman's game, which had turned from exciting and new to frightening. This man meant business, and if he wanted John to live, then he would have to tread carefully around the explosive ring of fire Moriarty had created around himself—it made him untouchable, and basically invincible.

Sherlock was waiting for the next part of the recording, for he knew what came next, his words demanding Moriarty to stop speaking with his best friend's voice, to stop using him as a puppet in his side show.

But they never came. Instead, John's words, broken with fear (though trying to be calm just for Sherlock, the noble fool) repeated themselves over and over, and soon Sherlock found himself shouting at the wall to stop it, his hands over his ears and his eyes shut tightly.

Suddenly, Sherlock snapped open his eyes and ran to the wall with the iron fire poker he had 'found' in a not-so-secret compartment in the bookcase (did John really think _that _would stop him from finding it again? Silly doctor) and thrust it through the ugly, ornate wallpaper he hated so much, barely registering the give and splintering of dry wall that cracked beneath his force. The wallpaper peeled away from the hole Sherlock was creating, allowing chunks of wall to fall away to the carpet and into the crack between the back of the couch and the wall. A dust cloud burst into the air, specking his dark curls with the white particles.

Sneezing once to expel the unnecessary obstacles in the air from his lungs Sherlock peered into the darkness of the tear, only to come out, frustrated. He hadn't seen anything in there except for the electrical wiring. No speakers, no MP3 of some kind, nothing connected to the wiring that could indicate where the disturbing recording was coming from.

_Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear…_

Sherlock unplugged everything in his flat, from the refridgerator to the radio to the television, yet the recording kept playing, pressing against his ears and disrupting his brain processes so efficiently that Sherlock wanted nothing more to scream.

_Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear…_

Sherlock then stopped in his tracks, whipping his head from side to side, unable to block the recording from his ears… unable to distance himself from the unwanted emotion that bubbled forward and clouded his thoughts.

_Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear…_

"Stop it. STOP IT! I can't think!" Sherlock moaned, gripping his hair so hard that pinpricks of pain beaded forth. "I can't _think!_"

Unable to handle it any longer, Sherlock tore through the house, collecting his violin, an emergency bag John forced him to create in case they had to leave for emergencies ("You never know, Sherlock. It's best to be prepared, especially with assassins after you every other week"), and, after a moment's hesitation, Yorick the Skull (he didn't need to be put up with this torture, either).

Only seconds later, a tall, thin man with a duffle bag and a violin could be seen blasting through the front door of 221B Baker street, slamming it behind him in force and entering a cab, screaming at a distraught cabby to step on the gas if he wanted to still be alive the next morning.

* * *

It was a clicking noise that woke Detective Inspector Lestrade.

At first, Lestrade thought the noise had come from his alarm clock, but then he remembered he wasn't twelve anymore using his grandmother's wind-up gadget. His clock was digital, and it read out exactly 3:34 AM in bright red numbers, glaring out into the darkened room that assaulted Lestrade's tired senses.

Exhaustion washed over him as he ran a hand down his lined face, scrubbing his palm against the prickle of stubble along his jaw, trying to forget that his lips were soon going to be stuck in a permanent frown. He was already prematurely grey… his wife used to like to tell him he was turning into the tin man from the Wizard of Oz (in hindsight, the pet name may not have been as affectionate as he had previously believed).

Lestrade waited in the darkness for a few moments, listening to the ragged sound of his half-ruined lungs (that's what happened after almost thirty years of smoking… but at least he quit) as they inhaled and exhaled the slightly stale air of beer and tobacco smoke that hadn't quite faded in his home. After a minute of waiting, Lestrade sighed heavily, very irritated his body had woken himself up with no apparent reason. He turned on his side and closed his eyes, trying not to focus on the cold, empty space beside him.

The wonderful curtain of sleep had just barely touched his brow when the clicking noise sounded again, this time bearing a resemblance much more like the unlocking of a door than the ticking of the second hand on his old clock. Unease drifted through Lestrade quickly, making him much more awake than he had been before. His eyes sharpened and his breathing quickened as he soundlessly picked himself off his bed, unlocked his beside drawer, and pulled out his handgun, which felt cold, but familiar, in his hands.

With careful, muffled steps on the rough carpet of his flat, Lestrade crept over to his bedroom door (which had a gap open just enough to sooth his paranoia of being able to hear well enough in his sleep. His wife had hated it) and peered around the wood, squinting in an attempt to unveil the mysteries of the night pressing against his eyes.

Through the sliver of moonlight trickling in through the part of the curtains, Lestrade's eyes adjusted accordingly so the night looked less so. The bluish tint and the fuzzy uncertainness that came with being partially blind with an insufficient light source illuminated his bare hallway—the walls that should have held pictures of his children growing up, but he never had any to fill the empty picture frames.

He stepped onto the cooled wooden floor with his bare feet, noting at the back of his mind that he might need to sweep his floors more often, and padded as quietly as he could to his living room, very much aware of how painfully loud he was being despite his efforts. He couldn't hear much but his own labored breathing, but he figured he'd have somewhat of an element of surprise carrying a gun. He removed the safety with a click and stepped forward, half into the living room, his eyes naturally darting from one end of the room to another. There were a few shadows and silhouettes that weren't familiar to his home and the sickening feeling of dread crept up his intestinal tract.

Slowly, he counted to three in his head, and flicked the light switch on, successfully blinding himself and his attacker. However, at the sound of a deep, rumbling, and familiar voice, Lestrade jumped six feet in the air and felt his heart leap up his throat.

"Do turn off that light, Lestrade, it's bad news for brainwork."

Heart racing with fear and veins throbbing with adrenaline, Lestrade lowered his gun, took the bullets out, and set it on the counter next to him.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you shared the shit out of me."

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in Lestrade's favorite armchair, but it had been moved away from the television and facing towards Lestrade's bedroom. Sherlock's Bellstaf coat and cashmere scarf was slung over one of the tall, iron bar chairs his wife (soon to be ex-wife) bought to sit underneath the counter looking into the kitchen (apparently, that space had been too bare, whatever that meant). Not surprisingly, Sherlock was wearing his usual expensive half-suit deal the young man normally wore, but his shoes were still on as if he were expecting to dash out of there any second.

Sherlock's gaze never left Lestrade, taking in his night-time attire of bedhead, tank-top, and boxer shorts (Lestrade was soon feeling very embarrassed at being caught so, but to his defense, he had thought a burglar had broken into his flat, not a consulting detective). "Yes, apparently."

Lestrade cast a glance around the room again, and was surprised to see Sherlock's laptop on his coffee table and a violin case propped up against Lestrade's other couch.

Lestrade scratched the back of his head. "Sherlock," he said in his most calm voice, feeling anger pulse through him after the weariness of the lost adrenaline passed, "it's past three o'clock in the bloody morning."

"Yes."

Lestrade considered keeping count of how many times a day he had to rub his face either out of irritation, exasperation, or exhaustion. Many questions filtered through his sluggish mind, and Lestrade found himself too lazy to ask them all and settled on the one blaring through his mind at that moment: "Why did you break into my house at three in the morning, Sherlock? You have your own flat."

Something flickered over Sherlock's eyes, but it vanished before Lestrade could analyze it. "I couldn't think," he said in a monotone, steepeling his fingers against his lips.

Lestrade took a deep breath and counted to ten before he trusted himself enough not to yell at Sherlock—his best friend was missing, after all. Once he felt calm enough to speak, he said, "You came to my house, woke me up, and practically moved in… because you couldn't think."

"I was being quiet," Sherlock protested with a mild don't-be-stupid look. He gestured to the violin case, which lay miraculously closed. "At first, I thought you might like a bit of midnight Bach… it seems to make John smarter, anyway… but then I remembered people usually don't like being woken up early in the morning."

Lestrade just raised an eyebrow, not bothering to point out his own predicament. It was just too easy. Instead, he said, "You could have just called me, you know, to let me know you were coming over."

The look on Sherlock's face became even more condescending. "People usually don't like being woken up early in the morning," he repeated, sounding very much like he thought Lestrade was the stupidest human being on planet Earth.

With a sigh, Lestrade thumped over to his unoccupied, worn—yet fairly comfortable—couch, trying his best to take no notice of the creaking and moaning of his knees as he slumped into the cushion, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his silvery hair. He was too old and too damned tired to deal with a worrying sociopath (that didn't even _sound _right).

A paused hush fell about them both, and Lestrade could feel the intensity of Sherlock's penetrating stare on his face as he collected himself. Lestrade looked up and contained his flinch; Sherlock's gaze wasn't quite a glare, but more of an angry or bitter disbelief… a strange look on the man's face. "Sherlock," Lestrade said, pressing his palms together between his knees as he leaned on his elbows. "Calling me ahead of time would have been more… sensible than breaking into my home and waiting for me. You nearly set me into cardiac arrest."

Confusion flitted over Sherlock's features. "But… John said not to call you before eight in the morning."

Lestrade allowed a small, drained smile. "I think he meant when you've solved a case, Sherlock, not an emergency such as this."

"But—"

Lestrade sighed. "If it is about work, it is not an emergency. If someone is in trouble, say, your house caught fire and you needed a place to stay, then yes, you may call me at three in the morning."

"Oh."

Shaking his head, Lestrade made to return to his room to rest up for the next day, but held himself back as a thought crept across his mind. "Hang on—you have a key to my house, Sherlock. Why didn't you just use that?"

Both of Sherlock's eyebrows went into his hairline before he refocused his attention on the wall above Lestrade's television. "Dull."

"Dull?" This was just getting ridiculous. "Sherlock, it's usually—is that a skull?"

Lestrade had just noticed the white cranium poking out innocently from Sherlock's small knapsack. Sherlock spared it only the fleeting-est of glances. "Yes."

"You have a skull… why?"

"I couldn't just leave him there."

At this revelation, Lestrade felt his tense features slacken and his heart throb painfully. _Oh, Sherlock_, he thought, trying not to make his blatant staring too obvious. It saddened him that Sherlock had boughts of childish fears still riddling through him, yet it made Lestrade feel very warm and important that Sherlock came to _him _for help, even if the consulting detective didn't know it yet.

With a jaw-cracking yawn, Lestrade determined that he was finally tired to go back to sleep, which he desperately needed. "Alright, Sherlock, you can stay," he said, finally broken down. His shoulders slumped in exhaustion—mentally, and physically. Dealing with this man could take a lot out of a person. "Just… try not to blow up my flat, yeah?"

The smallest quirk of a smile made its ghostly presence on the pale face.

"You know where the spare blankets are," Lestrade continued, hoping that Sherlock would allow himself to rest… if only for a little while… but knowing with a sinking heart that Sherlock wouldn't 'slow himself down' enough for trivial human needs such as nourishment and sleep. He wondered why he still tried.


	7. Chapter 7

7

The day was rainy. The streets were slick and reflective with fresh, cold rainwater that stuck to the soles of shoes in droplets and darkened suave materials to a different color. Trees swayed with the light breeze and the graying clouds cast over the sun, giving London a bleak and dingy feel to the city. Some people would think the city looked unloved in such a way, but Molly always found it to be one of the charms of the place—the constant rain and dreary bareness wasn't lonely, but a treasure to be held… a mystery to be solved.

Molly smiled and shifted her cloth purse from her hand to her elbow, twirling the steel staff of her open umbrella on her shoulder, enjoying the sprinkling of collected drops of rain that sprang off the waterproof material like kittens off a countertop (and she adored kittens so much… they were just so cute!).

Finally, she reached the Starbucks closest to Bart's (it was where their first date was, after all! That is… before she found out he was gay), spent a minute outside fumbling around with her fussy umbrella (it refused to close!), trying not to slip too much in her flats. Gooseflesh rose up her bare calves as wind and rain blew onto her skin, freezing it. She knew she should have worn pants today, but she really wanted Jim to see her new skirt and shirt combination, complete with a sweater. When she pulled out the sweater that morning, it made her think of John, who always looked so comfy in them. Molly kept in mind to tell Sherlock's friend that her new style was inspired by him the next time he and Sherlock came around the Morgue.

Shaking the rainwater from her umbrella, Molly pushed her way into the coffee shop (getting her sweater caught on the door handle), sighing in the breath of warm air that tickled her nose and prickled her scalp, subtly drying the water from her hair (it was up in a pony tail today, just as Jim liked it). Molly spent a minute searching the shop for a familiar face when she saw Jim waving to her from the other side of the shop.

Molly gave a wide smile and stumbled over her slipping feet, sliding a bit on the tiles and hefting her cloth purse onto her shoulder. When she was close enough to Jim, her new best friend stood up and opened his arms wide for a long overdue embrace.

"Molly! It's so good to see you!" Jim exclaimed. Molly grinned and hugged him back, stepping away to get a good look at him. His dark eyes were shining with enthusiasm and his smile gleamed with white teeth and made laugh lines crinkle around his eyes and forehead. His black hair was gelled back, giving it a messy, spiny look, and black eyeliner made his eyes look bigger than they actually were. His black jeans were skin tight and his underwear was bright purple today. Molly found she really enjoyed that color; it was pleasant and happy.

"It's so good to see you too, Jim!" Molly said, sitting down at the table Jim had picked out for them both. It was a window seat, so Molly and Jim and their new friendship could be displayed for all the world to see.

"Well, look at you, Mrs. Hot Stuff!" Jim said, gesturing to her skirt and shirt combo. "You look super!"

"Thanks, Jim," Molly blushed, wrapping her sweater more tightly around her.

Jim pushed forward a steaming cup and capped a lid on it. With a smile, he said, "Here's that Pumpkin Chai Latte I promised. And your sweater just matches your shoes and eyeshadow more perfectly than ever."

"Jim!" Molly could feel her face burning a color like a ripe tomato. He just smiled at her, and for something to do, Molly brought the cup up to her lips and took a sip. Froth bubbled forth and covered her lips and nose, but the latte was sweet and spicy on her tongue, filling her with almost the same warmth as having a best friend.

Jim gave a high pitched giggle and flipped out a handkerchief from his inside coat pocket (Molly didn't even _know _people carried handkerchiefs anymore), and before she knew it, Molly was laughing as well, wiping the whipped cream from her nose, her cheeks pink with embarrassment, but things weren't as embarrassing with him. He really understood her.

"So how are things at your kingdom?" Jim asked with a tilt of his head.

Kingdom? Molly paused at the strange choice of words, but immediately shook it off. "Do you mean at Bart's? Well, work is going fine—it's been a pretty slow week… barely any cadavers to perform autopsies on." She gave a suffering sigh. "And Sherlock hasn't even come in once this week. It's a little strange."

"Strange?" Jim asked curiously, his eyes glinting in… amusement? No, it couldn't be. He was interested; he _had _left his number underneath Sherlock's dish, after all.

"Yes," Molly said, taking another sip of her latte, pursing her lips so it wouldn't scald her tongue. "At least once a week he visits either to work in the lab on a case or he comes to get some body parts for his own experiments."

"Oh, so no cases then?" Jim asked, his voice low.

Molly could sense his disappointment. "I know. He is rather thrilling to watch when he's solving one of those puzzles."

Jim muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like "thrilling indeed," but Molly wasn't so sure she heard him right.

"I'm sorry?" Molly gave him a questioning look, but he just shook his head.

"Oh, my apologies, Molly. I was just commenting on how that man over there has a nice arse." Jim gestured to the line of haggard and rumpled looking people, where a familiar silver haired man stood, his shoulders slumped from exhaustion and a weary look on his face.

"Do you mean Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Molly asked, a little surprised. "I don't know, isn't he a little… old for you?"

Jim gave her a fleeting grin. "Oh, he is," he agreed with a purring sound. He sounded a bit like a cat. "But it doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."

Molly could kind of see where he was coming from, but she couldn't imagine checking out old men, even if they did have nice behinds. It was just the same in high school where girls would have crushes on their teachers… Molly just didn't see the appeal. She shrugged her shoulders; each man to his treasure, she supposed.

Feeling a little awkward with the silence that had fallen upon them, Molly smiled. "Where do you work now, Jim?"

"Hmm?" He turned his head away from the line, the strange, hungry look not leaving his eyes. Molly started, having never seen this… feral of a look on Jim's face; he had looked a bit like a wolf about to attack a half-dead prey, not a cat with a purr. Molly smiled shakily again. It wasn't fair to compare him to a mean dog in such a manner… after all, she was just a little mouse.

"Have you found a new job?" Molly asked, truly interested. "I heard you quit working in IT…"

"Oh!" Jim exclaimed, back to his usual cheerful self. He leaned forward, jiggling his leg, and tapped Molly on the nose. "Yes, silly. I now work in a small shop up north, selling second-hand clothing. The people there are just so—adorable."

Jim glanced to the left of him and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry Molly, will you excuse me to go use the little boy's room? I've got to make a little tinkle."

Molly smiled awkwardly. This was information she didn't exactly need to know. "Go ahead, Jim! You don't need my permission."

"Goodie!" he trilled. He swung his arms enthusiastically as he skipped away, making Molly giggle.

Not moments after he disappeared around the tiled wall, Molly turned to see Detective Inspector Lestrade walking over to her, looking as if he was pulling hundred pound weights with his feet. He dragged his soles on the ground, clutching his cup of coffee as if it were the only thing grounding him to life.

"Detective Inspector!" Molly greeted with a wave. She crossed her ankles under the table, stretching out now that Jim was momentarily away.

Lestrade jumped at the sound of his name, looked up from the froth in his cup, and gave a weak smile as he noticed Molly. He changed his direction from a nearby table to her own and slouched into Jim's empty seat. She was about to say something about Jim being there with her, but Lestrade beat her to it.

"Hello, Molly, it's nice to see a familiar face," he said, slurring his words slightly in tiredness.

"Bad day, was it?" she asked sympathetically. She moved her half-drunk cup her Chai Latte and leaned forward on the table with her elbows.

Lestrade ran a hand down his scruffy face and sighed, "You have no idea."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Lestrade seemed to consider her a moment as he sipped at his steaming coffee (black, it looked, no sugar or cream. Gross). He nodded as he set the cup down.

"It's a tough one," he said eventually, his words weighed and carefully calculated, unsure what he should share with her. Molly smiled in encouragement. "Some poor bastard has been kidnapped just for kicks and giggles."

Molly gasped. "That's terrible! Do you have Sherlock working on it? I'm sure he can solve it."

Lestrade gave a heart weary sigh and ruffled his silvery hair. Molly felt her heart go out to him. She knew he took it hard with every case; he was just compassionate in that way. He drew a long breath, his lips twitching in a grimace, then finally said, "yes. He hasn't eaten or slept in days, and I can't get him to."

"That's what he has John for!" Molly said kindly, but this seemed to be the wrong thing to say, as Lestrade cringed as if she had slapped him instead. She immediately backtracked, stumbling over her words. She didn't mean to offend the Detective Inspector! "I-I'm sorry, M-Mr. Lestrade… I d-didn't mean it like that… I'm sure you're doing a fine job…"

He waved away her apology with an exhausted wave of his hand. "No, that's not it… it's just…" he inhaled sharply, steeling himself for something, and took another sip of coffee. It seemed to calm him. He took her hand, which had Molly very confused. He looked away, then looked at her, his eyes sad and so very tired. "John is the poor bastard who had been kidnapped."

Molly gasped in horror, her stomach falling hard to her toes, rendering her to the earth with an unpleasant bump. John… cuddly, huggable John with his kind smiles and his comfy sweaters… smart John with his helpful doctorly advice… always apologizing for his blunt best friend, Sherlock… and Sherlock… "Oh God," she said, her eyes burning with unshed tears of compassion. "Oh, _God_… how's Sherlock?"

Lestrade leaned back, using his once occupied hand to crack his knuckles in a nervous twitch. "Not good," Lestrade said finally, using both hands to hold his coffee. "The poor kid looks close to a mental breakdown, he's so worried. You wouldn't notice it if you didn't know him well… but he did destroy my office the other day."

_Poor Sherlock_, Molly thought. "He destroyed your office?"

"And he's now occupying my spare room at home… brought his violin and everything." Lestrade nodded, draining the rest of his coffee. "For some reason, he won't go back to his and John's flat. He says it's because he can't concentrate there… but I think it's something else, and he won't tell me what it is. Stubborn brat."

Molly smiled knowingly. "That's Sherlock."

Lestrade tapped the surface of the cheap, wooden table of the coffee shop before pushing himself to a standing position. "Well, it was good to see ya, Molly Hooper," he said, his voice returning to its tired state.

"Okay, bye Detective Inspector," she said, watching him leave. Before he reached the door, she called out, "Greg!"

He stopped in his outreached motion and looked up patiently.

"You will find him," she said determinedly. Lestrade gave her a genuine smile that told her 'God, I hope so,' and disappeared into the rain, a hood pulled over his head and his hands in his pockets.

When he was gone and the bell above the door signaled another entrance, Molly sighed and put her head in her hands, pressing her fingers against her eyes to will the tears away. She liked John; he was nice, and he was the only person who could control the wild entity that was Sherlock Holmes. He made Sherlock better, and you could rarely see one without the other. Before John Watson came, it was the normal thing to see Sherlock alone, a bored look on his face, and every emotion he portrayed was forced, acted.

But after John came, it was abnormal to see Sherlock _without _John. When John was away, Sherlock returned to the bored state, and he usually said his usual rude mannerisms, but he tried to amend them to make them seem less rude, less hurtful, as if he was beginning to realize words could harm people just as well as murderers could. And it was even better with John around, even if he was saying nothing, because Sherlock was more enthusiastic, more expressive, and distinctly happier than he had ever been before. And John would always get Sherlock to apologize (sometimes) with just a stern look and an explanation of how what Sherlock had done was "A Bit Not Good."

Molly jumped out of her skin, making the chair squeal back, when she felt a cold hand on her shoulder. Molly looked up into Jim's concerned face.

"Molly? What's wrong?" he asked softly, his lips turned down in a light frown. He touched a finger to her face and lifted one of her tears to eye level, watching it curiously. "Why are you crying?"

"Oh, Jim! It's just dreadful!" she cried, careful to keep her voice low enough not to attract attention. She wanted to throw her arms around Jim and sob, but she controlled the urge and forced herself into an adult mindset. She wasn't a hormone ridden teenager anymore. "Just dreadful," she repeated, swiping at the tears on her face.

Jim sat in the seat Lestrade had occupied before and frowned deeply. "What's so awful to make you cry, Molly?"

"Do you remember John? Sherlock's friend?" she asked, looking into Jim's eyes.

Something odd flashed across his face. "Yes, I remember. Short, blonde haired man in a god-awful jumper?"

She nodded glumly. "He was kid-kidnapped," Molly said, her voice hitching on the terrible word. She looked down at her lap, completely missing the wide grin on Jim's face. It was gone before she looked up again, and he looked sad.

"How's Sherlock taking it?" he asked kindly, reaching across the table to place his cold hand upon her warm one.

Molly sniffed. "Not good… not good at all. John is his best and only friend," she said, looking to the window and watching as a trail of rainwater slid down the glass pane. For once, the rain did not seem like a friendly reminder of the character of London, but a downpour on her once cheerful mood. "John's the only one who could reach Sherlock's heart."

Jim gave a small smile. "And it's just being taken out, oh _dear,_ that's _terrible._"

Molly wiped her eyes again on a stray napkin, wishing she hadn't dirtied Jim's handkerchief with foam, for she could truly use it now. "It is, isn't it?" She turned to see his sad smile, and she talked quickly to make amends. "Oh, no! Sherlock isn't gay, so he wouldn't have returned your feelings anyway, John's just his best friend… oh jeez, I'm making a mess of this…"

Jim only smiled his wide smile. "Don't worry hun! It's not the first time I've been rejected!" he said in a voice all too cheerful for the mood. Molly smiled at his attempt to brighten the day. "But I do want to say I'm sorry for giving him some—er—_unwanted _attention."

And with those words, he placed a largish box on the table, which was wrapped in red shimmering paper, complete with a golden bow on top. Molly gave the box a strange look before saying, "you want to give him a present?"

Jim flushed. "Well… it seems the perfect time, you know, with his friend missing, and I think it would make him feel just a _little _better."

Molly eyed it again before nodding and tucking the gift underneath her arm. "I'll take it to him right away." She stood up as Jim did, and they gave a slightly awkward hug. "I'm sorry for leaving so quickly, Jim, but Sherlock needs some support right now and…"

He pressed a calloused finger to her sensitive lips and shushed her. "Don't worry, Molly Hooper," he whispered in her ear. "I'm sure he'll be just fine."

With a kiss to her cheek, he left out the front door, leaving Molly wondering when she would see him again.

* * *

After about five minutes of walking in the rain, her perky umbrella catching the raindrops as they fell and a bright red package in the crook of her elbow, Molly realized she had no idea where the Detective Inspector lived… nor did she have his cell phone number. She could always text Sherlock, but she wanted her appearance to be a surprise (and hopefully a welcome one, too). From what she had learned from Lestrade, Sherlock was _not _handling the temporary loss of his best friend well, and Molly was sure whatever Jim had bought for Sherlock would cheer him up, if at least for a moment.

Unsure of where to go, Molly decided to take a cab to New Scotland Yard, where she could leave the present on the Detective Inspector's desk to take home to Sherlock. What she wasn't expecting, though, was the Detective and Sherlock in the cluttered lobby, arguing by the looks of it, their voices so low and fast that Molly couldn't even catch a snippet of their conversation.

Molly carefully stepped in, not announcing her approach, and took a long look at Sherlock. He looked very much the same, she noticed, but there was something a bit off from his appearance… only a slight shifting of the features that looked like they had been reproduced by a barely adequate painter: his skin was too pale, stretched too thinly over his sharp cheekbones; his hair was a little more unruly than his usually neatly kept curls; his bottom lip quivered only a little while he spoke. In entirety, Sherlock looked flustered, if Molly could put a name to it. He was frustrated to the point of desperate, and it made Molly sad to see Sherlock this way. Even if he didn't like her all too much, she counted him as a friend—he wasn't a cruel or terrible person (though he did sometimes say such horrible things). He was just odd and sad.

"Hello, Molly, how was your date at the coffee shop?" Sherlock asked without looking at her. Molly noticed the sudden strain to his voice, though it was almost as normal as his bored baritone usually was.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said in a calm, warning tone. "I met her at the coffee shop. She was alone."

Sherlock turned his head to Molly, his piercing green eyes seeming to see straight through her and into her very soul. She stopped her breath, then released it as he looked away. His hands clenched and unclenched as if he didn't know what to do with himself.

Molly put her umbrella against the chair, noting Sherlock's lack of comment with worry. He must be strung up by John's disappearance. It made her heart ache that she could do nothing to help him.

"Actually," she said timidly, taking a small step forward, shifting her bright package in her arms. "Sherlock was partially right. I was meeting a friend there."

The left edge of Sherlock's lip twitched, and Molly smiled more easily. Sherlock loved to hear he was right.

"So what's the gift for?" Lestrade asked, intrigued and confused. He scratched at his brow.

Molly started, almost dropping the present on the ground. She hoped it wasn't fragile, for all the fumbling around she did with it would surely break whatever was in there. "Oh, this? It's a gift for Sherlock from my friend Jim. He says he's sorry for giving him unwanted attention."

If she expected a reaction to her words, it wasn't what happened next. Sherlock, who had been bouncing his leg in impatience and watching Lestrade for something to do, paused and snapped his head to Molly with frightening speed, a confused and almost angry look on his face. Betrayal? Lestrade was slower on the uptake, his hands on his hips, pushing back his rain-laden jacket, but the look on his face was the same. By the time she had finished, both men had pulled guns out from the back of their pants (since when did Sherlock carry a gun?) and advanced on her, both wearing murderous expressions.

Frightened by their hostility and confused as to why it was directed at her, Molly automatically raised her hands, dropping the carefully wrapped present on the ground, backing up to the wall. She trembled at the unbudging hatred from Sherlock and she felt all the blood rush from her face.

"Who do you work for?" Lestrade demanded, his legs shoulder width apart and regripping the gun in his hands. Molly flickered her attention to Sherlock, who had slowly walked forward to the package, lay flat on the ground, and pressed his ear to it. Lestrade, however, was still pointing a gun in her face. "I said: who do you work for?_ Tell me!"_

Hot tears spilled down her cheeks and dribbled onto her coat, intermingling with the frigid dampness of the rain. "I don't know what you're talking about, Detective Inspector! I work at Bart's Morgue!"

"Miss Hooper!" Lestrade shouted, his lips twisting in a growl, his eyes blazing.

"Lestrade, she's telling the truth," Sherlock said, his voice more calm and his features relaxed out of the hatred they once held, though they still blazed in anger (not at her, thank goodness, but at the gift near his face).

"You're sure?" Lestrade asked in a less commanding voice, his gun still in the air, aiming for Molly's head. Molly counted her breaths, focusing on slowing them down, trying not to concentrate on the burning in her chest from hyperventilating. And the bile rising to her throat—she didn't exactly want to throw up in front of Sherlock Holmes… not when he already found her silly and boring.

"Yes, just look at the state of her, Lestrade," Sherlock said, now standing and holding the box, shifting the red present in his hands and narrowing his eyes as if to x-ray the contents. Without looking up, he said, "She's frightened by our sudden hostility: her eyes are dilated, she's shaking like a leaf, and she's pale as sheet. Perspiration under the arms and the tremor in her voice like she's about to expel stomach acid and tea…" he looked up as Lestrade lowered his gun and reholstered it. "Very few people can fake true fear, Lestrade. If she was, her eyes would be steady, as would her hands, unless she's a trained assassin or a soldier, and, quite frankly, I have a hard time believing this to be true. Molly Hooper is not a criminal mastermind, Lestrade. She's a single woman with no family and fewer friends, working late and waking early, tied to her work, socially awkward, using her nights to watch movies with her cat. She's as clean as it gets." Sherlock spared Molly a glance. "Get her a blanket, Lestrade. She's in shock."

Lestrade, pink tingeing his cheeks and looking very much ashamed, mumbled a small "sorry, Miss Hooper," before guiding her to a chair, not minding her soaked appearance or the fact that her clothes instantly dampened the leather beneath her. Droplets froze on the back of her neck just like the tendrils of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail. Her legs were jelly towers and she felt as if she could never walk again.

Lestrade came back into the lobby, holding a bright orange shock blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Molly snuggled into the blanket and instantly began to relax; she hadn't known she was shaking until the tremors stopped.

Sherlock glared at Lestrade, his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows slanted down. "I thought she was told." His deep, low voice held undercurrents of irritation and disbelief.

"S-Sorry?" Molly interjected, looking between the two men. "Told what?"

As per usual, she was ignored.

"We didn't think he would come back after her," Lestrade said tiredly, dragging a hand down his face again, rubbing his eyes with his pointer finger and thumb. His skin stretched and seemed more grey than before. "And, you know, we didn't know if she could handle it, the information. Have you ever heard the saying 'ignorance is bliss'?"

"John may have mentioned it once or twice," Sherlock muttered, taking a pen from the front desk and lifting the golden bow with it, almost like he expected the ribbon to be laced with poison. It glittered pleasantly and innocently in the yellowish lighting of the building, bouncing off the natural curious light of Sherlock's eyes. "But it would have been better, I think, if she was put on guard."

Molly carefully watched the two men in front of her, trying to figure out exactly what was going on. Why had they reacted so badly to her and the gift?

"It was a 'need to know' basis, Sherlock," Lestrade reasoned patiently, watching the world's only consulting detective inspect the package. "And we believed that if she didn't know anything, she wouldn't be in any danger from reoccurrences."

"It's a little dangerous for her to think he's her _friend_, Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"What are you guys talking about?" Molly said, feeling more bold and like herself now that she was within the warm protection of her blanket. Something clicked in her head as both men determinedly looked in different directions, acting as if she had not spoken. "This is about Jim, isn't it? You guys think he's a suspect in your next case!"

Her voice had grown shrill, but she didn't care; she couldn't believe it. Jim, a criminal mastermind! That was preposterous, a ridiculous conclusion. He was a cute man looking for companionship with a love for eyeliner and brightly colored underwear!

"Molly," Lestrade began, but stopped in his addressing of her to jump at a loud crash behind him. He turned and Molly followed his gaze to an upturned desk (that thing must have been heavy… Sherlock was crazily strong for how thin he was), papers spilling out of the cracked open drawers and onto the floor, a monitor shattered, the computer right next to it looking very much as if a sledgehammer had been taken to it. A door slammed off somewhere distant in the building, seeming to shake the walls.

Lestrade groaned at this new development, moaning about having to replace another computer, but Molly noticed the gift from Jim lay open, the wrapping paper sheathed off professionally, revealing the silver underneath the red. Molly let the blanket fall from her shoulders as she edged closer to the package, wondering what on earth in there could have upset Sherlock so much.

Molly peered over the precisely opened cardboard box, and felt a relief of anti-climax in the box. It was only black material. She smiled and shook her head, gripping the cloth/leather material in her hands, feeling its somewhat scratchy but smooth fabric in her hands, and pulled up. She stared at it, transfixed, trying to figure out what was so familiar about this jacket, when she realized with a gasp that it was the bomber John wore all the time.

Lestrade swore heavily behind her (his mother should wash his mouth out with soap!), but that wasn't what made her drop the jacket to the floor.

It was the letters written on the inside of the jacket that stunned her, and that was before she realized they were written in blood:

_Property of Jim Moriarty. Come and get him, my Kibitzer._

_XXX _


	8. Chapter 8

8

Mycroft Holmes sighed into his armchair, lengthening his legs to rest out by the fire. It didn't dare spit sparks at him; the warmth by his feet crept up his expensively clad legs, allowing him to release the tension he had kept in his back and shoulders. He hadn't realized he was tense until he had sat down, tempted to the point of twitches in his fingers to turn off his cell phone and let Lindsey (Hera today, must remember this to avoid the oh so annoying Cold Shoulder from his most trusted employee) deal with his late night calls. He didn't dare. Not while his insufferable (but sadly, suffering) brother may need something from him. So, instead, he laid his top-of-the-line Blackberry on the leathery arm of his chair, leaned back, and let his eyelids close over his itching, tired eyes.

Sherlock had visited earlier that day, better collected than Mycroft had last seen him, but perhaps too detached, trapped a bit in his Mind Palace, too afraid to venture out into the real world. Sherlock said he had come to collect the footage Mycroft had recorded of Moriarty's live chat. Mycroft didn't have the heart (an expression, as Mycroft's heart was frozen over, blocked by ice to keep the warmth out) to tell Sherlock he already had them. Mycroft had the sneaking suspicion Sherlock didn't quite know what to do with himself. There was very little evidence to glean through, and Mycroft could tell Sherlock didn't want to watch John get beaten again. Mycroft had wanted to slap his brother, tell him to get a hold of himself, but really, Mycroft couldn't blame his brother for not wanting to watch that… er… _entertainment _a second time (Mycroft himself hadn't particularly enjoyed that display… he quite liked the good doctor), even if partway through the video he had an important call with the Chinese Ambassador he unfortunately could not miss.

Besides, Mycroft never used violence, especially around his brother. _That _would be unspeakable. Inconceivable, if he was to quote a Mr. Vizzini.

(There had been a few close calls, however, as Sherlock's intelligence and wordplay matched his own, and his brother had an _incredibly _annoying habit of doing the opposite of what Mycroft would ask. Mycroft often daydreamed of strangling his brother—only a daydream, _never _reality… he did care somewhat for his little brother and it would be quite unfortunate if he died—but it was quite undignified.)

Other than the visit from his brother and the multiple meetings with world leaders (and a couple of laughable attempts by criminal terror cells to kidnap him—they hadn't even reached the city before they were detained and thrown into the government penitentiary), the day had been rather unproductive. No threats to dissolve, no disputes between rival world leaders (what a pain that usually was), and Sherlock had managed to be less an irritant than usual (which was a real shock—usually it took a John Watson to alleviate their combative moods—or stares… it seemed he and Sherlock spent most of their time around each other glaring than not).

Boredom wafted around the edges of his sleepy mind—he really _should _be getting to bed… no telling what tomorrow could bring—when he decided he could spend his last few moments of his night being useful. As his brother seemed to have problems reviewing the material he was given, perhaps it was best Sherlock had Mycroft's sharper, more trained eye to look things over. Moreover, Sherlock had never been good at categorizing and dealing with his emotions. Should Doctor Watson die, Mycroft might be forced to end Sherlock before he became an extreme threat to British security.

And _that _was even more unspeakable than striking him. He _had _promised Mummy, after all.

* * *

James Moriarty felt like a new man today.

Of course, that was to be expected when he often disappeared into a disguise—he adopted a new personality, he _became_ the intellectually dimmer character he was trying (and succeeding) to portray. He had even defeated the _great _Sherlock Holmes with his disguise as Jim from IT. That moment was one of his finest, when he had beaten Sherlock at his own game; he had gotten passed the ultimate test to hide his true self.

Moriarty drilled his fingertips into the hard, golden armrest of the throne he had acquired from the storage room—it was amazing the amount of things one could find in a school. This one he had found in the Drama storage room, but sadly, he couldn't find a crown. It was disappointing; Jim was _sure _he would look positively _dashing _in one.

Maybe one day. But not today.

No. Today, he was bored. It crept in the deepest shadows of his mind, licking up the sides of his brilliant brain cells, a dark cloud conquering his every motive, his every thought… if only things would just be _interesting _every once in a while. Add some color to that grey that seemed to be in everything and everyone.

Sherlock Holmes had been a nice challenge, but it turns out he was ordinary, just like the rest of them. Sure, the man was smart and got increasingly annoying when he unraveled Moriarty's plans with only a single look (had the man in the Belstaf coat been interested in it), for Moriarty had been losing high-paying and most fascinating clients. They were less ordinary than everyone else, a little splash of color in his otherwise grey toned world.

But Sherlock Holmes was just a man. Even he let his emotions fuel his actions sometimes. It was boring, predictable, and very disappointing. He had had high hopes for Sherlock Holmes, ever since his name cropped up on his 'To Watch' list.

Moriarty growled. And then that blasted army doctor had to wheedle his way into Sherlock's life, changing Sherlock's sure to be rise into the criminal life to something else entirely: a hero. How revolting. Had Doctor Watson never met Sherlock Holmes, Moriarty would have the difficult man by his side, creating crimes together so flawlessly they could never be stopped, not even by a certain British Government.

So he decided to mess with Sherlock Holmes, to show him that his life with Doctor Watson was a liability, that Sherlock could become greater without such a weakness to drag him down. That was the problem with Sherlock Holmes; he cared too much! It was sickening. It created a sour taste in Moriarty's mouth and made him want to gag (but gagging was for the weak, and Moriarty was anything but).

And what was most hilarious was that no one but John Watson (and perhaps Sherlock's own brother) had seen what a big heart the consulting detective had. Sherlock just didn't know what to do with it.

He had chosen to pick on Sherlock because he was bored. He wanted to remove the obstacle standing between him and Sherlock as an experiment, to see how Sherlock would react.

It was as expected, unsurprising, and what was more unsatisfactory was that Sherlock couldn't even divorce himself from the emotion of seeing his friend hurt long enough to see a clue so simple, so anti-climatic and not clever that he could go and collect John Watson himself. Doctor Watson was too much a distraction. It was a good thing Moriarty didn't have any friends. Only his work. And boredom still managed to cripple him slightly.

The other thing wrong with Sherlock Holmes was that he wanted everything to be clever. He was so busy looking for the smallest detail hinting at a bigger picture that he often forgot to observe something staring him _right in the face!_

Moriarty sighed with long suffering and pulled out his phone, pressing a speed-dial button and keeping it to his ear, leaning back in his most uncomfortable make-shift throne. The boredom he had managed to staunch away with his little frayed game had started to creep back, darkening his thoughts and calling the voices to the front most part of his brain. Time to make things interesting, then.

"Yes, sir?" a deep voice inquired.

"Ah, Me'Shell, darling," Moriarty purred, crossed his ankles and resting his left arm on the cheap, painted metal of the throne. "I'm a bit bored with our guest. He refuses to speak to me and is _terribly _hostile. Will you do the little honors of helping the good doctor? I'm afraid he may be a little sick."

"It will be my pleasure, sir," the man said, his voice muffled by the twisting of the speakers through space and wavelengths. Once the call ended with a click, Moriarty placed the phone into his breast pocket, smoothed out the new wrinkles in his Westwood suit, feeling only a slight taste of the chase in his veins, much dulled by more exciting past experiences.

"Come and get your pet, Sherlock dear," Moriarty murmured to the floating dust particles of the room, his back to an enormous blackboard as his drilled his fingers into the cool metal arms of the chair. "He's been waiting."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes sat in Lestrade's plain, bare living room, looking upon it with distain at its lack of cow skull hanging by the windows and hating the fact that he couldn't shoot the walls in frustration (well, he _could_, but Lestrade might not be as sympathetic to his plight). The room seemed too empty to Sherlock. Dust collected everywhere but on the couch he sat on (so this must be Lestrade's usual armchair… hmm… that might explain the dirty look Lestrade gave him earlier), even on the scarcely used tables and on the columns of the large cut out of the wall he could use to spy on the kitchen. If he looked there now, all he would be able to see there would be shadows and the occasional gleam of the sink faucet or the stove (which were also rarely used… even Anderson would have been able to figure out that Lestrade was never home anymore except to sleep. Was the man truly that busy? Or was he still upset about his wife leaving him? Ugh. Sentiment).

Instead, he sat in the chair, letting his body sink into its cushion as he connected one foot to his knee and brought his melded hands up to his lips, constantly going over the facts he had collected over the days John had been gone. Moriarty had taken John just to watch Sherlock squirm, and Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt about that. Anger, certainly. Frustration paired with anger, as did irritation… things had been going so well until Moriarty decided to end that (before John was taken, Sherlock had been bored on the verge of death for some excitement, and now, Sherlock just wanted to lay back on his couch with a cup of John's tea, watching and criticizing John's 'hunt and peck' way of typing. How odd. He was so used to the domestic life that he found himself _missing_ it. How nauseating. What had the world come to?).

(There was also this unknown little emotion that spiked in his stomach, making his hands slicken with sweat and his breath and heartbeat quicken to a point where it couldn't have been healthy. What was his body trying to tell him? Why was his body doing that when he needed desperately to think?)

And if John died in Moriarty's hands, Sherlock would not stop until Moriarty's network was nothing but shreds of broken bones and black holes. Then he would go after Moriarty himself.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

This familiar voice broke him from his thoughts (how had he not noticed her approach? Had he been so submerged into his Mind Palace that he did not notice a break in? He was either getting old or losing his grip on reality… or both. He never ruled out the possibility).

Without looking to where the voice spoke from, Sherlock said, "You're not supposed to be here."

She sighed. "Pleased to see you, too."

There was a moment of silence as her second-hand sneakers almost silently rounded his chair, taking a moment to throw herself down onto Lestrade's couch. Sherlock could feel her stare, and he turned to glance at her.

It was shocking how a faked death, blonde hair, and new clothes from a second-hand store could do to change a person's appearance. The heavy make-up she used to hide behind in an elaborate disguise was miniscule—enough to make her pale green eyes look bigger and more innocent than she actually was (and innocent she definitely was not). Her jeans were worn and crinkled (she had been wearing them for at least two days, sleeping rough in the alleyways according to the dirt on her rump and knees), and she looked fairly uncomfortable in her T-shirt (Sherlock knew for a fact that she preferred silken or leather fabrics… or to be completely in the nude, as she was when he first met her). She kept shifting in her seat, showing discomfort in her own skin, and her eyes kept darting around the room (looking for cameras? Smart. Mycroft would have detained her in less than a second... had he put cameras in Lestrade's flat in the first place. Or was she expecting someone to follow her?). She had just eaten before she came here (indents on her fingers proved she had used a steel butter-knife… cutting a sandwich? Spreading jam or dressing? She had always been good at hiding her actions).

Then there was the troubling question: _why _was she in London in the first place? He had taken his own time, lied to both his brother and John about taking a case in Brazil, just so he could save her skin from a pack of mercenaries bent on severing her head from her body and posting it on a stick. And now she was back? Idiot.

"Why aren't you in the Caribbean?" he asked her, moving his sight to somewhere above the television to a section of dry rot on the wall (Lestrade should get that looked at sometime) so he wouldn't have to look at her. She was always intriguing in the most—in fact, the only person who could beat him… and it being a woman to boot—but she was distracting him at the moment. Why wasn't she gone?

_Go away, Miss Adler, find someone else to bother. I'm busy._

She sighed again, crossing her legs and resting her clasped hands on her knee. "I got bored."

Isn't that why people do _anything? _Just to stop being bored? Sherlock minutely shook that thought away (it reminded him much of the Cab Driver and of Moriarty when he was using hostages to speak through). Sherlock removed his fingertips from under his chin and rested his hands on the arm rest. This was beginning to get tedious. "And you came here because..."

"You have something I want," she said without missing a beat.

There was a pregnant pause. "How did you get to England without being noticed?" he asked, truly curious, and perhaps a bit impressed. "My brother checks planes regularly."

"I know a good pilot..." he could hear the smirk in her voice. "Well, I know what he likes."

"So he offered private transport."

Miss Adler smiled. "Of course."

Sherlock was tempted to grab her by the shoulders and throw her out of Lestrade's window. She was keeping him from his primary task, and it was very annoying. He could feel the frustration fuel the blood in his veins, but he pushed it aside. John would say throwing someone, especially a woman (like that made any difference) out the window was A Bit Not Good. Or he would use the less frequent phrase: A Lot Not Good. That's when Sherlock would be subjugated to a long, boring, and tiresome lecture about manners and other social things Sherlock quite frankly did not give a damn about.

"What are you called now?" he asked, still refusing to look at her. Perhaps if he ignored her long enough, she would go away.

"Ivana," she said, throwing in an impressive Russian accent. Could she speak Russian? Had she been abroad recently? (No, Sherlock, no! These questions are trivial and will get you no where. If you can't deduce it from her, than forget about it and move on. She will never tell you). "Ivana Humpalott."

Miss Adler was still smiling, as if sharing in some private joke. Yes, he noticed the crude humor, but he wouldn't laugh at it. John, perhaps, would have spit out his tea (he did drink tea a lot). Before Sherlock could comment, heavy, blundering footsteps, uneven with the leaving traces of sleep, stopped his speech. He looked up to the darkened hallway just in time to see Lestrade's tired form enter the soft light of the living room, bare foot and wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a ratty shirt.

Rubbing his eyes once and running a hand through his silvery hair, Lestrade said in a thick voice, "Sherlock... will you keep it down... oh."

He had looked up, surprised at the recent company. Confused (his wits even more dulled than usual at this early time in the morning), Lestrade looked from Miss Adler to Sherlock, expectant for an answer to why there was a thin, blonde woman sitting on his couch. When Irene smiled, a dark red hue rushed to his grungy skin under his collar and up to his ears.

Sherlock rolled his eyes (how ordinary men could let their reason get taken from them by a single, interested look by a woman was just pathetic). "Miss Humpalott meet Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock looked to Lestrade, almost glad of his appearance. Maybe _he _could make The Woman go away. "She likes detectives."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Do you have a first name?" he asked, stretching out the collar of his grey T-shit as if the temperature in the room had risen a few degrees. Dear Lord. He expected that kind of behavior from John (who would stare at anything with two breasts and walked), but Lestrade? Were all men just horrifyingly weak?

"Ivana," Miss Adler said, amusement sparking in her pale eyes.

Lestrade swallowed. "Ivana… Humpalott." He said this slowly, and it took him a moment to understand what he had just said, telling by the sudden widening of his eyes.

"Me too, dear," Miss Adler said, not at all embarrassed. She turned to eye Sherlock, roving her eyes about the length of Sherlock's body, appraising and assessing. Sherlock forced himself not to squirm in discomfort. "Not sure about him, though."

Lestrade looked a bit more flustered and confused at the same time. He then turned to Sherlock, who had just noticed Lestrade was still leaning against the threshold to the living room as if afraid the floors would fall had he put his weight on them as he struggled to come up with a response.

"Was that a fake name?" he finally settled on, and Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock said in his most condescending tone. If it weren't as apparent to others that her name was made up, then he did not have high hopes for the rest of humanity. He turned to Miss Adler, extremely annoyed that she was wasting his precious time. "Your new name is atrocious and crude. Change it."

"Not a chance, Mr. Holmes," she purred. "I find it rather... fitting."

"Yes, of course a woman who does her business by selling herself would find that fitting. A disguise is always a self portrait, is it not, Miss Humpalott?"

Sherlock was strangely satisfied to see Miss Adler's smile replaced by indignance and irritation. Good. Perhaps she would leave now. "Did you just call me a prostitute?"

"No, you did that to yourself." At her sputtering disbelief, Sherlock aimed his next question to Lestrade, who looked so bewildered it was comical. "Well, this is your flat. Kick her out. She's annoying."

Miss Adler spoke before Lestrade even had time to open his mouth. "You know, when I broke into 221B earlier today, I noticed something funny with your stereo system."

Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows in thought, and Sherlock could see the rusted gears in his head working. "What?"

"Shut up." Sherlock didn't want Lestrade to know for a reason, and Miss Adler would ruin his (not so elaborate) plans on keeping Lestrade in the dark.

Thankfully, she didn't expand on her explanation. "And it makes me think something is seriously wrong." She made a great show of looking about Lestrade's flat, moving her delicate head left and right, eying the television and stereo system with a mocking sort of interest. She then pinned Lestrade (he had moved closer and now stood by the sitting Sherlock, ogling The Woman as if not sure she was the enemy or just some strange woman off the streets who decided to pop on by) and Sherlock with a penetrating stare. "Where is Doctor Watson? Did you finally scare him away?"

Lestrade jumped in surprise and reached for a gun that wasn't there. Sherlock tensed.

"Ah, thought so," she said with grim satisfaction. She relaxed more into the chair, leaning heavily on one arm, her body angled toward both men as she took a greater interest in the conversation. "Who has taken him?"

"An old friend of yours." Sherlock's voice was short and curt, trying to get her to leave without resorting to force.

Miss Adler blinked. "Ah."

"You know Moriarty?" Lestrade asked. His face betrayed his thoughts so palpably that Sherlock could practically hear them. They created a sort of white noise through the silence of the room and it was very annoying when Sherlock was trying to think.

The look on Miss Adler's face could only be described as impatient. "That's behind the times, Detective Inspector. Now I'm hiding from him."

"A bit stupid, really, to come back here then," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. (Leave, Woman!)

"No, not stupid," she disagreed with a frown. "I need my phone back."

"Too bad. I don't have it." Sherlock turned away from her in disgust, about to ask Lestrade to kick her out again, but The Woman _still _continued to talk. What was this, a chat room? The Connie Prince show? Sherlock thought he had given her enough signs to tell her to leave. Was he being too subtle? Should he just scream at her until she was gone? No, because then Lestrade would scream at him for being too loud and waking up everyone in the complex. Counter-productive. Unnecessary. Less dull than usual but still dull.

"That's what you said the last time," she said, a hint of authority in her voice. Ah, so she was serious about acquiring her phone. "I need it."

This struck Sherlock as odd. Why would she need a broken phone? "No you don't. My brother took everything off of it."

"_Except_ for the untraceable trace pattern," Miss Adler said, slightly desperate. "I can't do that with another phone. If I use another it will be used to locate me. Besides, who would think to use a dead woman's phone?"

"You know what people like. Just do it again."

"Can't," she said in a most unfeeling, deadpanned voice. "He's dead."

"Isn't that convenient."

"No, not really." She didn't sound regretful at all.

"Lestrade, I want her out of my sight," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand, barely looking at the woman who dared to dirty Lestrade's couch with her distractions. He quickly stood and paced a short walk between the television and the coffee table, hands on his hips, his mind racing so quickly that even the breathing of his companions irritated him. What he needed most right now was for that blasted creature to fly away. That's what Sherlock would like, anyway, for Irene Adler to disappear and never come back. He snapped his attention to Lestrade, whose mouth was partially open and mind blissfully blank (this was why he hated and distrusted women! The things they could do to a man's brain). Impatient, Sherlock snapped his fingers in front of Lestrade's face to gain his attention. "Flap your badge in her face or something," he told the tired Detective Inspector and waved vaguely in her direction again before plopping himself back down on Lestrade's armchair. "Arrest her."

Lestrade shook his head and clarity returned to his previously glazed over eyes. Finally. "Sherlock..."

"Detective Inspector, arrest me and I will be dead within two weeks." Miss Adler pushed herself to her feet, ignored the stunned look on Lestrade's face, and slowly walked until she faced Sherlock, hands on her hips. "Now, I can help you find the good doctor if you would just only let me try."

Sherlock scoffed. "I don't need your help."

She then bent down, close to his ear, and whispered so softly he could feel the warm breath on his cheek. His shoulder and back muscles tensed as she spoke. "Let me try."

Sherlock, momentarily stunned, found himself not sure what to do. His mind was blank and his ears felt hideously warm. Lestrade. Lestrade would know what to do. He turned his head to the Detective Inspector, silently asking about his next move. Sherlock had never been good with social graces, and to be blatant, all he wanted to do was to shove The Woman away and run to the next dark alleyway... or maybe behind the Detective Inspector. The silver haired man merely stared at Sherlock, and Sherlock wanted to scowl (John would have known what he was trying to ask). Finally, Miss Adler pulled away, frowning, and Sherlock found it easier to breathe. The air was less heavy and he was entering familiar territory. Resisting the urge to lock himself into the nearest room, Sherlock stayed in his seat and eyed The Woman cautiously. "Why do you want to help?" he asked, his voice gratefully normal.

Her frown lessened, but it was still there. "Well, I'm bored, first off, and I like Dr. Watson. He's a good man."

It was Sherlock's turn to frown. "You just want to stick a thorn in Moriarty's side."

She smiled. "No, that's just a bonus. And, if I do say so myself, you look like you've bitten off more than you can chew."

No one said anything for a while. Once the silence had overstayed its welcome, Sherlock removed his eyes from The Woman and focused on the stain by the corner of the wall to the hallway leading to Lestrade's bedroom. It was light, nearly invisible, but whoever had cleaned it up got impatient that it wouldn't come out fast enough and left it there. Sherlock could see how the stain happened in his mind's eye: Lestrade came home late, drunk, perhaps because he was lonely, perhaps because a murder case went wrong, but he was barely coherent either way, and he was still drinking. On his way to his bedroom, he bumped into the corner, sloshing the beer down the side of the wall and into the carpet. He didn't notice it until the morning, and the stain wouldn't come out, for he had waited a bit too long.

"I owe you," The Woman continued, breaking his concentration on deducing the array of dents in the walls and stains on the carpet, her voice softer now (Ah, there it was. She no longer wanted to be in Sherlock's debt. How predictable. Everyone was the same). "Please let me help."

"You've done enough. Go away."

"Please."

Sherlock looked up into her face, harshly deducing why she was so adamant to help him. Yes, she wanted to be out of Sherlock's debt, but surely she knew she wasn't going with them once they figured out where John was? First, his pride got in the way; _he, _and only he, wanted to be the one to find John. He wanted to figure things for himself and be able to do it without any help.

However, that way might make it a bit too late to save John, and Sherlock rather preferred the good doctor alive. The quicker the better, then.

Without taking his eyes off Irene (save she go back on her word and disappear out the window without providing her promised assistance), Sherlock reached to the coffee table where his laptop laid gloriously closed and not distracting, just how he liked most things to be (he could never understand why people wanted to interrupt him and be in his presence when he so clearly wanted to be alone. Where they _trying _to distract him from his breakthroughs on cases? Where they _trying _to annoy him so much he had to resort to threats—and other things John had labeled as 'not charming'—to get them to leave? It was a mystery that would forever baffle him), snatched up the light bit of technology, and forced the screen open to reveal the labeled keys. After a few quick strings of passwords and searches, he had pulled up the video footage of John's torture he and a few officers of New Scotland Yard had been at privilege to see. He set the humming laptop over his knees and waited until Miss Adler and Lestrade circled until they were behind him, able to bare witness to the recorded crime on his screen. Once they were settled, Sherlock pressed the triangular arrow (indicating 'play'. How dull and predictable, but they were supposedly made for idiots, anyhow), and mentally barred his anger and the unnamed emotion away as Moriarty spoke at them _("…And you've brought _friends_! The more the merrier, I say…"_).

Miss Adler's face was quite unreadable as the screen bleached her already pale face into a bright hue. "Ah, this was live?" she remarked, her pale eyes glazing over the evidence with precision and delicacy. Good. At least she was taking this seriously.

"Yes." Obviously.

"Poor, poor Baker Street boys," she sighed.

There was a long stretch of hushed silence while the three of them watched as Moriarty told his story, Sherlock surprising himself that he was able to keep a clear head about it… but then again, he wasn't exactly watching John. He was more focused on Moriarty, trying to deduce what he could about him. Did he leave a purposeful clue? Did he give Sherlock a case to figure out? Sherlock took note of every string loose from the man's long, white, stainless shirt (there weren't any at all, which was infuriating. There were only slight creases as Moriarty spun around, barely any indicating he had sat for a long time. Moriarty might as well had just put the suit on just for the show), every scuff mark on the man's impeccable shoes (again, there wasn't anything to glean, and it was infuriating. Moriarty could run loopholes into Sherlock's deductions, and the man knew it. He could tell by the smug smile on Moriarty's face, telling him, 'Come on, give me all you got, dear, you can't catch me'). In fact, the man couldn't stop smiling.

Sherlock then realized Miss Adler had paused the video's progress. Holding back a scowl, he refrained from pushing her to the floor. Why the hell did she stop the video? He needed to watch this… he needed to figure this out…

"John's posture is very odd." Miss Adler's voice cut across his thoughts, stopping them when she said his friend's name. Sherlock shook his head once to put all of his previous deductions on hold so he could concentrate on the matter at hand. "You said he was a soldier?"

Sherlock had no idea where she was going with this. "He was."

Miss Adler scanned the video back to where they first caught a glimpse of John and pointed at the good doctor with a carefully manicured nail, making Sherlock look at his bruised friend. His heart skipped once knowing his friend was in pain, but it wasn't the same overwhelming distraction it had caused when he first had seen it in Lestrade's office. "It looks a bit wrong," she said. "At first glance, he looks defeated, but you can tell he's been in this type of situation before. He looks... tense, but relaxed. Why?"

Brilliant. She had told him something he already knew. If Miss Adler truly wanted to help, she'd throw _herself _out the window. That way he wouldn't get a lecture from John _or _Lestrade. "Stop analyzing out loud," Sherlock said, wishing he had the revolver.

The Woman ignored his complaint as she sped through the video, "Right there. Listen to what Jim says."

" _'Would you like to remind our guest about _keeping silent_?'_ "

"Yeah, John told the man to piss off," Lestrade grunted, his words slightly slurred from being awake this early in the morning.

These idiots were trying to kill him with their stupidity. "Lestrade, don't speak."

He was ignored _again! _That Woman and that Detective Inspector really needed to learn not to do that. The frailty of genius was that it needed an audience, and it didn't bide so well with Sherlock that these two people weren't being very attentive.

"No... That's not what he meant," Miss Adler said patiently. "Dr. Watson must have given us a clue."

Then it hit him. Every thought and every conversation he had had in these last few days crashed like two trains that had gone off rail, flooding his mind with discarded theories and memories that waited with insistence to be either deleted or to be fit into the puzzle that was this horrible case. The blood, the coffee cups, the phone—all important at one time but not at this moment and possibly not ever again. Delete. Everything he had taken from Moriarty's clean appearance—not important. Dull. Delete. Miss Adler's new appearance and crude name—it never had been important and the bloody Woman couldn't leave him alone! Delete. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid! It was there the whole time, waiting for him, staring him in the face, and it was so simple (yet so elegant), that even _Moriarty _expected him to pick up on it right away. Stupid! _Stupid!_

"Sherlock?"

Whoever said his name could have been Miss Adler, it could have been Lestrade, but it was only a small annoyance shoved to the back of his mind as he reeled back from the onslaught of information gathering and organizing itself in his head. He could have died in shame at how stupid he had been, at how _ordinary _he had become to not have noticed this one crucial detail that would have made all the difference. Stupid! Not good, Sherlock!

"_Would you like to remind our guest about _keeping silent_?"_

"_Johnny must have forgotten about our little silent rule. You know what that means?"_

_"An eye for an eye, Sherlock." _

"…_And you said you can deduce everything… my, my…"_

He had been watching the wrong person! Days ago, he had been so focused on trying to deduce where John was that he had been deducing the wrong thing. Earlier, he had been trying to glean information from Moriarty's words and apparel that he had _failed _to notice he should have been deducing _John! _Stupid! He would _never _forgive himself for doing this. He could have saved John _days _ago!

"Sherlock…?"

It was Lestrade, definitely, but Sherlock just shook him away, shoved Miss Adler's elbow off the arm of the chair he sat in (he ignored her exclamation of how rude he was being. Unimportant. Dull), and leaned forward, rewinding the video until the very beginning and pressing play. Excitement drilled through his veins, leaving him feeling lighter than he had felt all week.

"Come and get him..." Sherlock muttered to himself, recalling the grotesque note left on the inside of John's jacket (it hadn't been John's blood… it wasn't even human blood used). "Stupid. Stupid! I can't believe I didn't see it before!" He allowed the barest of grins to lift his lips. His best friend was truly the smartest and least ordinary person he had come across in a long while. "Oh, this is fantastic. Oh! That's it! John, you're brilliant!"

"What?" Miss Adler and Lestrade asked in unison, Lestrade with some apprehension, as his and Lestrade's definitions of the word 'fantastic' differed greatly.

Sherlock grinned more widely and rewound the video again, watching John's eyes. "Morse code. John was trying to tell me something! I can't believe I didn't see it before…"

"Morse code, right," Miss Adler said, a frown on her face as she watched the video. She then turned to Sherlock. "I can't read Morse Code."

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle. The happiness in his stomach had kicked the hurt out, hope and pride burning and swelling through his lungs; he was going to get John back! With a smug smile, he turned to face an astonished Irene Adler. "Turns out I don't need you anymore then, do I?" he missed the irritated grimace on her face as he looked up to the graying Detective Inspector. "Lestrade, I hate to repeat myself, but I want her gone. Kick her out."

Miss Adler sighed as if pained. "I'll leave once I get my phone back."

Sherlock shut the laptop impatiently and set it on the coffee table that could do with a replacement and stood, whirling around as he searched for his Belstaf coat. He let out a noise of satisfaction when he spotted it on the opposite coach. "It's still at the flat," he said, looping his arms through the sleeves of the coat, relishing only momentarily in the instant warmth it provided.

He could have been wrong (which was highly improbable, but not impossible), but Miss Adler looked disappointed. "What, you didn't bring it with you?" she asked, her eyebrows raised and something unreadable glinting at the edges of her expression. Had he had the time to analyze it, he would have done so, but his thoughts were so full of excitement of going to grab his friend that he was (nearly) bouncing on his toes.

"No. Why would I?" he asked, distracted.

"You brought one of John's jumpers," she said despondently.

Sherlock paused in his movements of shrouding his neck with his dark blue cashmere scarf. Why was this important? "Yes," he said slowly, as this statement had thrown him off. It wasn't obvious to her? Deleting these last thoughts, he explained, "When I find him he'll need something else to wear." Sherlock picked up his small duffle-bag and tucked John's favorite beige jumper deeper inside and zipped it shut. He looked up, irritated The Woman was still there. "Go away," he told her as he distractedly searched for his cell phone (where did he put it? Oh, it was in his pocket. Practical. Still dull). "Now shut up," he told no one in particular as he sent a rapid text to his brother.

When he turned again, he was pleased to see The Woman had gone and a decently dressed Detective Inspector Lestrade was in his place, expectant and wearing his most impressive police jacket. Sherlock could just make out the man's pistol in his back pocket (perhaps not the best place to put it, but Sherlock hadn't known anyone who had blown off their rear ends yet).

"He's in Bristol, Lestrade!" Sherlock said urgently as they sprinted down the stairs to enter the brisk air of the dark morning. "Come on, call your troops! We leave now!"

* * *

A phone beeped with an unread text message, but Mycroft knew what it was to say five minutes before it was received. He already had the correct (and most trusted) authorities contacted, and those he had trusted to watch and report whilst he took his call had been dealt with.

* * *

Irene glanced over her shoulder, a telling weight in her pocket.

* * *

Red and blue flashed and rang as they sped through the vacant streets.

* * *

Jim smiled in the half-light.

* * *

Sebastian Moran reloaded his gun.

* * *

And John Watson, delirious with pain and lying in a shallow, dried puddle of his own blood, woke groggily and without a groan. His eyes adjusted to the black pitch of nothingness that accompanied every night in that damned cellar, hating every moment he had spent in its none-too-gentle tendrils of darkness and treachery, and somehow, impossibly, something caught his eye.

Hardly daring to hope, John lifted his heavy head from the cool, motionless floor his ear had been pressed against. He stared at the strange object that reflected light (but where was it coming from? Possibly the crack in the door), mesmerized by the welcome symbol it possessed.

But… no, it couldn't be.

Just to be certain, John dragged himself merely inches closer (yet even this simple act seemed to drain him of strength), and with trembling effort, clasped his clumsy fingers over the twisted and coiled shape of a fallen screw.

* * *

**Originally, I didn't plan on having Irene Adler make an appearance, but Sherlock needed just a little push, as he was highly reluctant. (I have this love hate thing about Irene. I like her character a lot, but I hate that Sherlock apparently likes her or something. Or finds her interesting. IDK about their relationship, and I was kind of excited at first (in ASiB), because I thought she was dead, but then the end was like "hah! SUCKERZ! She lives!" and I'm like "Awwww, shucks.") I am an Asexual!Sherlock fan. I didn't really know how he should react to her, so I just made his body kind of react slightly, and him discard it. Did it work? Tell me so I can fix it if not! (constructive criticism if it's wrong. Please don't flame. I'm a bit sensitive).**


	9. Chapter 9

**Enter BAMF!John.**

* * *

9

Dawn broke over the horizon, bleeding reds and oranges into the slowly lightening sky, the dark pavement of the highway shimmering by the sun's reflection off the black top. Trees swayed in the barely existent wind, stretching their crackled limbs toward the chilled clouds in a mean exaggeration of a bleary-eyed child waking in the morn. Birds twittered and dawdled, fleeting from one branch to another, preening their soft feathers, forgetting the little feather that escaped its span.

Though the details were great, they were nothing but blurs of different shades of green and brown and black to Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, and Lestrade's choice of army—his team at Scotland Yard—as they zipped passed the terrain bordering the highway. Sirens wailed and spinning lights flashed over the few passing cars early in the morning as New Scotland Yard plus a consulting detective rushed to Bristol, trying to make the two hour drive even less so.

Surprisingly, Sherlock had elected to sit in Lestrade's police car (in the passenger seat, not behind the bars where criminals usually sat), but Lestrade suspected either he trusted Lestrade the most to get them there (which was humbling, no doubt), or that Sherlock didn't want to be alone.

But it didn't matter much when a man's life was on the line, and as the sun rays reached its bleaching fingers to the lingering darkness night had brought, Lestrade tried to ignore the foreboding in the pits of his stomach and the fear of what would happen were they too late.

* * *

"Sir, are you sure?"

Moriarty looked up from the desk he had been sitting at, a grin conquering his face. His dark eyes, though still dead and hard with insanity, glittered in amusement as he stood and slipped on a pair of glasses. They were heavily framed black specs, and when they were on Jim Moriarty's face, they made him look less sophisticated; less dignified. He looked more like a goofy college student than criminal mastermind. Opening his arms aide, Moriarty turned in a circle, giving Sebastian a good show of his grey Westwood suit, which contrasted nicely with the dark green chalkboard behind him.

"Seb, what do you think?" Moriarty asked excitedly, his grin mad and gleaming. He leaned forward on the desk, his pale fingers splayed over the smooth, wooden surface. Sebastian was reminded of a lion ready to pounce on its prey—or ready to leap over the table, at least. The world's only consulting criminal had always been unpredictable in that fashion. Moriarty breathed in the chalk infested air. "Would I make a good professor?"

Sebastian stopped a moment to consider—well, Moriarty _did _look the part—but they had a business to run, and, quite frankly, they had to hurry. That _pet _of Holmes refused to utter even a word. The Captain had fallen hard, Sebastian thought, from his tour in Afghanistan. And he had _such _potential to be a sniper. "Sir, we don't have much time until Holmes gets here—both of them."

Moriarty's smile slipped, but it didn't make Sebastian any less fearful of the man. "Let them come," he said in disdain, ripping off his glasses. They snapped by the bridge in his hand. "We will have more time than you think. They are _eons _of places Sherlock could search," (his voice had gone up a few octaves when he said 'eons,' and the grin reappeared on Moriarty's face. Sebastian had to hold back a shudder) "But when they _do _find Johnny-boy, I want to see the look on Sherlock's face as his heart _burns _inside him."

Sebastian nodded, though it was against his judgment not to sedate the old Captain and move locations. Or, even better, shoot him in the head and get it over with. But Moriarty didn't want Sebastian to do the job… apparently he screwed up the last time, and this was his punishment. Sebastian held in a groan of disappointment and anger.

Moriarty continued happily, "And Big Brother is too much a wuss to come after me himself." He clapped gleefully, reminiscent of a two year old who had done something above his ability. "Once Doctor Watson is gone, it will just be me and Sherlock! Isn't it grand? Then the games can _really _begin."

* * *

Unconsciousness was bliss, really. There's no pain, no thoughts… just rest and darkness over the eyes. But… it was not as restful as sleep would be, and if John was to be truthful to himself, when he did sleep in this damn cellar he had been thrown into, it wasn't very restful at all. There was only so much sleeping on a hard ground could do to revamp one's energy. When he did enter unconsciousness, it was infuriating. No sleep, no sense of time passing, and occasionally, a voice or two would enter his "rest," except the information would go in one ear and out the other—he wasn't able to keep it. And _that _was the most frustrating part.

Now, John was wide awake but in a considerable amount of pain. His face was swelled, as his skin over his right eye and cheekbones felt painfully stretched. His torso was on fire with healing lacerations and bruises, his legs burned with the still bleeding holes Moran had created with his newly invented weapon (John had been relieved when Moran only walloped him with it a few times, as that thing could have killed him if hit in the right spot). He had completely healed from the paddle whacks that occurring during his public ceremony, but that wasn't saying much. The lone thing that didn't ache within him was his calf and foot, which were numb with the pin prickles that came with a recent break.

He had lost count of how long he had been there, but he gathered it was more than a few days, as his stomach was in a constant state of aching and rumbling (even through the meager portions of the disgusting—and surprisingly not drugged—slop he was fed). He had hoped Sherlock would have come sooner, as being Moriarty's newest play thing was not exactly John's cup of tea (speaking of tea, John would like a cuppa when he escaped this joint). John didn't know how long he had been there, as the days and nights bled together into one long, horrific nightmare, but he knew Moriarty wouldn't want to deal with John for long; he would soon grow bored of him, and John _really _did not want to be around when that happened.

He was just comparing Moriarty to a child who took pleasure in setting fire to dolls (such as that one messed up kid from _The Toy Story_), when the slab of a door slammed open, making the nerves jump off of John's skin.

Tired and expecting unpleasant feelings, John began to tremble, and no matter what he tried to compose himself, John was unable to control his body's reactions. He knew he was close to being completely burned out, but he didn't want his clever captors to know this.

Nevertheless John had a sliver hope in the size of the nail he had picked up and enclosed in his left fist, hiding it from sight; from whoever had decided to crash into his room. His face was still on the floor, and John felt too drained of energy to lift his head up to see his visitor. Though he didn't have to wait long for large, bruise-gripping hands to seize his biceps and roughly tug him up. John kept his gaze lowered to the ground, giving the illusion that he was defeated, as he was dragged over to the chrome chair he had grown to remark upon almost fondly. He wasn't fond of exposing his neck to the enemy, but he had to put on a show lest Moriarty (or worse, Moran, who had a raging vendetta against him) decided to grace his presence in John's derelict room.

The hurtful grip tightened as he felt the cool metal through his jeans, and his arms strained (his shoulder burned) as they were yanked around the back of the chair. A thick, itchy cord was tied around his wrists in a figure eight movement before they were yanked once more to be closer to the back of the chair. It was a moment before John realized what he was being tied with was rope. He allowed the right side of his mouth to twitch in triumph (and at the _idiocy_ of Moriarty's buffoons… like Sherlock had said on their first case together… you have to wait for a mistake). Adrenaline of what he was about to attempt coursed through his veins like an electrical current (now _this _was the wake up shot he had been searching for!), leaving him almost light-headed with liberation and excitement (but that could have also been the lack of sufficient grub). He smoothed out his features before lifting his head to see who decided to visit him at this hour.

John forced his smile away. There was only one man in the room—no Moran, no Moriarty. It was his favorite (therefore, the one who enjoyed beating on John the most) henchman of Moriarty's: Me'Shell. The tall, muscular, dark-skinned man with the shining bald head and the dulled expression had his back to John, his broad shoulders twitching with his large arms as he fiddled with something on the table at the other side of the room. Curiosity almost stilled John's brain (what _was _that brainless man doing?), but he mentally cursed at himself for getting distracted; he had a plan to fulfill, and it was best done while Me'Shell wasn't looking.

John focused on keeping his face blank as he fiddled with the nail in his palm, centering his attention mostly on getting the metal screw to his fingertips. It was a difficult and seemingly long process, but his fingers and wrists were numb with the minimal amount of chafing against the rope (it was tighter than John originally thought, but all of his nerve-endings were shot and wired for being in constant pain the last few days), but finally the screw made its way to his left thumb and forefinger, and he hoped to high hell he wouldn't drop it.

With a cautious pant, John positioned the nail to penetrate the nearest bit of rope he could reach in such a contorted arrangement and began to twist it, rotating the screw left to right, willing it to pierce through the rope.

The nail was long and tough, if not a bit crooked, with twisted, serrated ends. It was easily taller than the rope was thick, so John thought he would have a decent chance to free himself.

It was a difficult process, and John began to hyperventilate when his energy was being spent on such a futile operation—it didn't work. It had gone through completely, but it didn't do much to lessen the rope's strength. He held back a sob and tried again, refusing to acknowledge the burning the work caused in both his shoulders; it was an agony he endured once before, and he could endure it again. This nail had been hammered through a thick, wooden board—surely it could rip apart a bunch of coiled fibers.

The rope gave only a slight bit as the nail punctured through the rope, but it wasn't enough for John to loosen the cord from his wrists. He tried to keep his breathing even as he twisted the nail through another area close to his last two holes. This was his only chance, and if he botched it up, he was likely a dead man.

"What do you have over there?" John asked in a huff, teasing his restraints as he dug the nail deeper into the fibers. He covered it with a cough, as if he was developing pneumonia (which wouldn't surprise him… he had been dumped in freezing water and taken out without being warmed up properly).

The muscles bunched together visibly from underneath the man's tight, black polo shirt. Me'Shell said nothing and continued to fiddle with something on the table. If John strained his ears, he could hear a dull clinking noise and the pinch and squeeze of liquid.

John momentarily froze before going back to his difficult (and stressful) job of freeing himself. He recognized that noise… he only hoped he was wrong. He did wonder, however, what was taking the bald man so long to prepare it (… not that John was complaining), but John reasoned the man could be completely underqualified to administer anything via syringe.

A bead of sweat trickled down John's nose. Sure, a beating, nails to the chest, cut into bits, no problem, he could deal with that. Yet, he didn't like much the idea of someone injecting a foreign substance into his system, and he wasn't sure if it was worse that someone who had no idea what he was doing was going to be giving it to him.

His restraints were about halfway to as weak as John wanted them—John needed to stall. Though he wasn't sure what was going into that syringe (or whether it was sterile—he tried not to think about that), he was sure, whatever it was, it would incapacitate him.

Thoughts racing across his brain as if were a speedway, John took an inaudible breath to steel himself for what he was about to do. It would probably pain him a lot, and normally taunting someone was in Sherlock's forte, but it was necessary. "Hey, Me'Shell, I just got one question," he said certainly after a moment's hesitation. The nail pierced through the rope again and he exhaled through his nose in relief. The adrenaline build up was so high it was nauseating, but he swallowed and moved on to the next portion of rope he could reach.

To his surprise, Me'Shell grunted, indicating he was listening. John raised an eyebrow, unable to resist. Moriarty's lackeys had manners? It was a mediocre form of the societal norm, but they were there.

John swallowed the anxiousness in his throat and squashed his conscience, which was screaming at him to stay civil. He had been raised basically by his mother, who ingrained politeness and kindness in his very being, training him to be the opposite of his father and Harry. Keep your thoughts to yourself, she said. Don't say anything unless it's helpful or nice, she said. Of course, there were expectations around friends, but saying nasty things would only lead to fights and hardship.

_Sorry, Mum, _John thought to his dead mother, not feeling at all guilty. He _wanted _to start a fight… or at least rile Me'Shell up enough for him to forget about the needle.

John adopted a politely curious tone, airy and light. "What the hell kind of name is Me'shell?" he said, allowing a mocking smile to play about his lips. "I mean, it sounds like it should belong to a little sissy girl, like Michelle, but it's not quite that, nor is it as manly as Michael, or as unique as Mishael." John babbled lamely as he carefully watched his tall, muscular captor slowly tense like a cobra ready to strike. He continued, grasping for straws, "I feel sorry for your parents. Obviously, your mother was completely drunk or stoned when she came up with that name for you, or maybe she _really _wanted a girl, after all, she didn't want to raise a boy, afraid he'd become a fudge-packer just like his father…"

"Are you talking about my mummy?" Me'Shell asked, his voice scarily deep and deliberately slow.

John shrugged, testing the bindings on his wrists. They loosened only slightly, and John grimaced; he had quite a bit of work to go. He talked as he dug the nail into another spot to loosen the fibers. "Technically I'm talking about you, but we can go there, if you like." John tilted his head to the side, considering Me'Shell in front of him. The tall, dark man was facing him now, the muscles in his arms and by his neck tensed, his shirt tucked in, his pants so tight John could see the details of his thigh muscles (and other parts John _really _didn't want to see). John tried to recall Sherlock, trying to mentally ask his best friend what he could deduce from this man. Though John's skills were improving, he wasn't as half as good as Sherlock in the science of deduction, nor did he ever expect to be.

The nail pierced through again, and John smiled. "You're a mummy's boy, and based on how you tuck in your shirt and use a child's nickname for your mother, you were raised by her, but didn't have much of a father's influence. He left both of you." John smiled, closed mouthed and evil, as Me'Shell's nostrils flared. He probably got all of that wrong, but it was doing the job. "Perhaps he thought you were a disappointment to him. Was he expecting you to have a larger gun, or was he disgusted that you kept you mother's ugly face?"

John licked his lips, trying to dispel any nervous feelings. He calculated he had about a fifty-fifty chance of getting beaten up, all depending on if he could get himself free in time. _Come on, John, keep making it up_. "Do you have Daddy Issues?" John asked in his most patronizing voice.

Me'Shell flushed in anger, his temple throbbed, and veins rose underneath his dark skin. Narrowing his eyes, he dropped the syringe (which was filled with a clear liquid that could have been a multitude of concoctions and viruses) to the table, where it clinked once, the delicate glass hitting metal. Me'Shell's corded arms flexed even more, his broad biceps threatening to tear the hem of his short sleeves, as he stalked closer to John and his chair, his teeth bared in an awful sort of snarl.

John tugged backwards on the rope binding him to the chair, smiling when he heard a fiber snap. It wasn't a very loud noise, as Me'Shell didn't hear it, but it was enough to signal that he was partly free. All he needed was a little push.

"Wha'd you say to me?" Me'Shell asked most menacingly. He grabbed onto John's left shoulder, which was red and inflamed from its past abuse these past few days.

John winced at the gritty, jerky feel of his ruined muscle rubbed against the bone, but he powered through it. _Just one little push._ "Your mother was a fat whore, and your father beat you both."

"Punk," Me'Shell stated, gripping both of John's shoulders with both hands and pulling up, causing his arms to close together painfully behind his back, his seat to rise off the slowly warming chair, and for the rope to snap behind him. The noise was audible now, and with a comically shocked look, Me'Shell dropped John, who fell to the chair, laughing so hard his vision blurred with tears.

"Thank you," he said to Me'Shell, gaining the element of surprise by taking his left fist and smashing it into Me'Shell's large face. Me'Shell reeled back, a hand to his nose, scarlet rivulets running through the gaps in his fingers and dripping to the dusty, already-bloody floor. John wasted no time admiring his work—Me'Shell was almost three times the size John was, and if John was to win, he needed to use every advantage he earned. John gasped as he landed on his broken foot (which shot searing pain through the pins and prickles from earlier), but mind won over matter and he grasped the chair from behind him, lifting it over his head as Me'Shell approached, fury in his eyes and arms outstretched, looking very much like a grotesque Frankenstein's monster. Blood ran down his lips and his chin, staining his teeth red underneath his purple and swelling nose.

John brought the chair down on Me'Shell's head at the opportune moment, causing the man to buckle and collapse by John's feet. Me'Shell groaned once, a deep, rumbling sound, but John ignored it, knowing that if he didn't do something soon, Me'Shell would come to his senses and finish John off… or worse: contact Moriarty. He didn't have much time at all.

Instead, John hopped one-legged over to the table, grasped the syringe, and plunged it into the carotid artery on Me'Shell's neck, pushing the unknown substance into the dark man's system. Me'Shell jerked back in protest, but soon after the injection, his eyes turned glassy with the drug and he jerked and grimaced.

Wide-eyed and in disbelief at what he had just done (he hadn't expected his shoddy plan to work), John dropped the needle and sat down by the henchman's side, moaning about the giant ache his foot had become, and pressed two fingers against the artery on the neck of his captor. A sporadic pulse throbbed against his fingers, which was a bit worrying in John's mind. Had that drug been administered into John's body, John would surely have died within minutes, based on what symptoms the larger man showed.

He shuddered once to rid himself of the feeling of what could have happened and instead rummaged through the henchman's pockets, muttering his hope for a cellular phone, swearing when he couldn't find one. However, his search hadn't been entirely wasted; tucked into the pants and lying against the lower back there was a handgun, and loaded as well. Enthused by this success, John searched for an extra cartridge, but there wasn't one (how did that make sense? Why wouldn't he have an extra on him? Was he really that dim-witted?). He did find a throwing knife hidden in his left boot, and John pocketed that as well.

Pain pulsed up John's right leg, and John hesitantly looked down at the purple and teal club his foot had become. It lay at a bizarre angle that even his unobservant, drunken sister would call unnatural, and it was enough to send John's stomach to a teetering edge. Bile rose up in his throat, burning his nose and esophagus, but John pushed it down and took his broken ankle with a clinical eye. His right foot was useless, completely useless, but he had run with worse before (four times he could count, all of them in Afghanistan: with two and a half days with no sleep; with a dislocated shoulder after falling; with a ruined knee that took weeks to heal later; and for a very short distance after he'd been shot in the shoulder). He was Captain John Hamish "Three Continents" Watson, M.D., of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and he wasn't about to give up now.

With difficulty, John rolled the black polo off of Me'Shell, peeling away the skin-tight, almost spandex material from the man's unblemished and diamond-hard skin (or, at least, that was what it felt like… the man had so much muscle on him John wouldn't be surprised if he worked out his eyeballs), and lifting it over the head of the man's twitching body. John then took the shirt and wrapped his ankle with it, his movements precise and efficient. He sat back to admire his handiwork, then decided he might as well take the man's pants as extra padding for his foot while he was undressing the man.

John stood and tested his weight on his newly and crudely made brace, leaning carefully on his right foot. He let out a gasp as the sting shot up his leg, but it was better than it had been. He glanced at the twitching body of Me'Shell and let out a wry grin. He imagined the rumors now: John Watson, alone in a bloody (both figuratively and literally) cellar with a man wearing only his underpants. People would definitely talk.

The door creaked open, and John uttered a silent curse as he stepped away from his musings and into the shadows behind the door, his painful and bound leg forgotten in his haste to stay alive. Carefully, John grasped the cool metal of the gun from the back of his pants and aimed it at the broad back of the pale skinned man who came in. The minion's ruffled hair glowing lightly with the reflection of the bright lights of the hallway behind him. At this profile, John nearly groaned; of _course_ it had to be Blade. Though he wasn't Moriarty's favorite crony (the man who earned that title was writhing on the floor at the moment), he was the most sadistic, though that was excluding Moriarty's strange partnership with Moran.

The scabbed, almost healed cuts on John's chest and arms twinged with phantom pain as he remembered the chill of Blade's silver knife trailing teasingly up and down the contours of his face, occasionally making a slit into his skin. Realizing he was fading out in exhaustion (had the fight with Me'Shell drained him so much?), he minutely shook his head and focused on Blade, who was now shocked to a standstill in front of the open door, staring at the twitching Me'Shell, who also had the incriminating evidence of a syringe by his side.

"What the hell…?" Blade said, taking a step toward the convulsing man, and John used this time to shoot Blade through the back of the knees. His hands didn't shake when he shot the man, nor did they after the man had fallen face first with a violent scream of pain ripping though his throat. Blood pooled out around the fallen form of Blade, and John ran up to him. With his bad leg, John pushed Blade to his back so he could see his attacker. John didn't feel anything when Blade's eyes widened in shock, nor did he feel anything when he took out the knife he had stolen from Me'Shell and sliced a large, shallow X through the stretchy fabric of his black polo. Blood slowly seeped over the man's pale skin, like blood and milk.

"X marks the spot, doesn't it, Papercut?" John asked as he crouched down to Blade's level. Blade's eyes rolled back as he surrendered to unconsciousness while John checked the man's pockets for anything useful. Disgruntled at only finding a knife (did the man not know how to shoot?), John shakily stood and waited until his vision stopped swimming enough for him to focus.

John then realized he had been standing there for a few moments, wasting precious time. Swearing under his breath, John pocketed his knife and lifted up his jeans, which were loose about the waist and filthy with blood and grime, and cautiously jogged out the door, limping horribly as he did so.

"Hey! You!" shouted a deep voice, and terror would have frozen John stiff, had he not reacted so quickly. John immediately turned to the where the left and whipped out the gun from the back of his pants to aim at Moriarty's henchman. He had only a millisecond to recognize the buff, bald, tan-skinned man with the hard green eyes as Drew before he pulled the trigger. The man made an "umph" of surprised breath as the bullet went through his heart before he crumpled to the floor, bloody and broken.

John wasted no time hurrying over to Drew's body—face and neck dotted with the red ichor from his heart lines while the no longer pumping blood spilled into a circle around his back—to rummage through his pockets, desperately hoping for a gun or another tool he could use to defend himself. He felt fairly soon he would run out of bullets with the one gun he had on his person, and when that happened… John would just have to get creative.

John hoped he would not have to resort to such barbarity… it was already terrible he was taking lives of Moriarty's minions just so they wouldn't alert the consulting criminal and his right hand man.

John let out a hushed, tormented grunt as he turned out Drew's empty pockets (didn't these men carry _anything _to defend themselves? Perhaps their muscle was good enough…). He hated the scarcity of his weapons (a half-loaded gun, a small throwing knife, and Blade's handy cutting knife), but it was all he had.

When he had finished, John stood, wincing as he put too much pressure on his bad foot. He was about to run off in the opposite direction of the body when something small and pink caught his eye.

John paused at this oddity; the color was a flash of neon bright lights in his current state of darkness. He hadn't seen anything pink since he had been taken those many days ago, and it was such a foreign concept in his mind that he just _had _to investigate. A small warning of 'curiosity killed the cat' rang distantly through his muddled mind, but he ignored it to pick up the soft color in this harsh world.

He stilled; the bit of pink in his darkness was a single ticket stub, one which had the time and date of a youth dance club recital. John swallowed, feeling a sharp pang of remorse. This man had a daughter—a very young one, maybe eight years old at most—and he had just killed him in cold blood.

_But he wasn't a very nice man_, he recalled his words from much earlier, from his and Sherlock's first case. However, it was a little hard not to feel guilty when he thought of the little girl who would never see her daddy again.

"… Yes, I know, Sebby, be patient… our little guest should be done baking enough for you to get in your last word…"

John took in a quick breath and hastily shoved the ticket in his trousers, suppressing a shiver that threatened to consume him at the sound of that mocking voice that changed its pitch like the skipping of a broken record. Footsteps soon followed the trail the voice led, sending John into a slight panic as he sought for someplace to hide.

In a spurt of inspiration, John ran to the very end of the hall on quick, light feet and stood in the tall shadow behind the open door he planned to exit through (they contained stairs!). His breathing was far too heavy and loud for his liking, so John fingered the gun with his right hand as he clamped his left over his mouth and nose, holding his breath for what would seem like hours of waiting. John stilled and averted his gaze (he watched them carefully from the corner of his eye… he didn't want to risk the chance of Moriarty or Moran feeling his scared gaze on their backs) from the two men striding confidently through the open door, Moriarty's dark hair slicked back and shining in the square, overhanging light, his grey Westwood suit nicely starched and wrinkle-free. Moran walked only a step behind, even though he was taller than the criminal mastermind by at least five inches. The man's blue shirt was tight-fitting, showing off the muscular but lean curvature of his back as well as the black handgun sitting just above his rear.

"You should have just let me shoot the little pest," Moran grunted, flexing and relaxing his fingers as if imagining them around John's throat. The small motion made John want to swallow. "A lot less trouble for everyone involved."

The window of opportunity was small: he could shoot the both of them right then. But, he calculated quickly (his lungs were starting to ache from the lack of oxygen), each shift in John's attention would take about four seconds to adjust, and even if he did manage to take down Moriarty, Moran's reaction time would be in less than one second. His chances of surviving such a tactic were slim to none.

Instead, John crept around the door and through the opening, casting himself in the dark shadows and pressing himself to the corner. Any second now, Moriarty and Moran would come across Drew's body, and one, if not all, henchmen would be climbing these stairs in search for him. John thought it would be better if he waited for the excitement to pass.

_Three… two… one…_

"What the fucking hell is this fuckery?" echoed Moran's voice. John tensed, straining his ears with such concentration a ringing made itself present.

Moriarty's next sentence was cold and difficult, freezing John's adrenaline in its tracks for only a moment, "John Watson has decided to play a game with me, Seb." The amused, mocking tone Moriarty usually adapted was absent from his voice. "Find him, dice him, and send each and every bit to Sherlock dear. He'll make a _fine_ puzzle."

There was a quick pattering of pounding steps and from the slits each rectangular step made, John could see Moran's red face—livid and snarling—before the man passed him and shot up the stairs, two large, completely identical henchmen shadowing his every move. Whether they were Moran's back up or protection, John didn't know. All he cared about at that moment was staying silent, his heart throwing itself against his battered ribcage the only indicator of his fear. He kept one ear on the quickly fading steps of Moran and his guard while the other he kept on Moriarty's voice, which was also distancing itself as he talked irately on his phone.

"I don't _care _if you're at your brother's death bed," Moriarty was saying, his voice taking the same chill it had the last time John heard him speak on the phone. The clicking of his shoes led away from the stairway, and John let out the breath he was holding. Moriarty's voice was fading, but the chill remained. "You _will _get over here, and if not… well," (there was a hint of a smile in his voice) "I guess you'll never see one pound of his surgery money…"

Believing this to be his chance, John escaped from the shadows from behind the stairwell and snuck up the metallic staircase, moving as quickly as he could without making too much noise and without being seen. The gun sat comfortably against his lower back and the tips of both of his knives clanked together with a small, metallic chime, letting John know of their support.

Using controlled movements, he crept up the stairwell, one hand on the rail to keep as much weight off his wrapped foot as possible (and as a way to navigate in the dark). The steps were stone cold and rough underneath his feet, and he kept his eyes and ears active, darting to each dark corner, mostly keeping his back to the wall in case someone decided to try and sneak up on him. It was an unnecessary precaution; he made it to the top of the staircase without incident.

When he opened the door, the hallway light just about blinded him. John blinked quickly and kept to the right, his footsteps light and putting less pressure on his broken foot than necessary, almost surprised he couldn't feel it much anymore.

_It has to be the adrenaline, _John mused, barely taking in the surroundings of a tiled floor and posters on the sparsely painted walls. The layout of the building struck a note of familiarity within John, but before he could figure it out for himself, he was stopped by a loud voice.

"Hey, you!"

"Oh, no," John groaned to himself, turning just in time for a very large man (Phillip) to grab him by the throat with one hand and the shoulder with the other, lifting him off the floor and slamming him into the wall. If John's back ached from the action, he didn't notice; all he could think about was the ache in his throat and the burning in his lungs as he choked for air. Steel fingers clenched tighter around his neck, and for a moment John was stunned, that is, until he remembered he was armed.

"Well, well, well," Phillip said, a strange glint in his eyes. "If it isn't Sherlock's dog." He licked his lips and exhaled heavily into John's face; his breath hot and putrid. "I'll admit, they didn't let me have as much fun as the others, but that all can be changed—"

John cut Phillip off once his fingers clasped around the hilt of one of the knives in his pocket and rammed its sharp edge into the closest bit of the large henchman he could find, which happened to be his right side. Phillip gasped out in pain as the blade slipped in between his ribs, but the only thing it seemed to do was to make the man angrier. He did, however, drop John and stagger back to put his hand to his wound, blood dripping from between his fingers, staining his pale skin red and creating a star speckled pattern on the hard tile floor.

"You little fuck," Phillip rasped, lifting his head from the vague inspection of his wound to glare at John at what he must have thought was intimidating. It was dampened by how the man was hunched over and in pain, making the attempt nearly laughable. "You killed me."

"Not yet," John said, looking behind him in a fleeting glance. The hallway was empty except him and Phillip, which created a small sense of relief. He didn't think he had the energy to fight off Moran and his guards; he could feel fatigue grasping its slippery fingers along his consciousness, and John had to shake it off. If he passed out now, he would be a very dead man.

"If I have to go down," Phillips said, breathing heavily and whispering those very words, "Then you're coming with me."

"You're horribly cliché. I hope you know that." Without hesitation, John pulled the gun out from the back of his pants, causing Phillip to freeze. This struck John as odd; why weren't any of these henchmen carrying firearms? Only one man he had met so far had one.

His musings had been severed short, however, as John realized he was wasting valuable time holding a gun to a dying man. He was sure the man would die in minutes; Phillips breathing had become more ragged and horribly wet with blood and pain. If John shot this man now, he would be doing him a favor.

As John's heartbeat slowed his vision became sluggish, and John realized he would have to keep moving in order to stay awake and to keep his mind off the pain. With a grunt of exertion, John limped quickly up to Phillip, slammed the hilt of the gun to the back of the dying man's head, and disappeared around the corner without so much of a farewell. He didn't know how close Moran and his cronies were, and to shoot would mean to give away his current position. The bastard would die in his sleep, though God knows he didn't deserve it. Besides, there was no need to waste his precious few bullets on a man who was already dead.

The next door he threw open he was hoping for another set of stairs (or at least an exit), but instead came to be a darkened room, the blinds drawn shut, the barest amount of light he was letting inside setting weird patterns of something recognizable in the room that he couldn't quite place: clumps of random, black straight lines with connected shapes on top. It took him a moment for him to realize what he was staring at were music stands.

_What the fuck…? _was the only sentence running through John's mind at the moment—he hadn't seen a music stand since high school. It was such an odd apparition in John's mindset of 'kill and escape' that it struck him dumb for at least ten seconds.

He didn't have much time to think, as he heard voices echoing dully from the other end of the hall. As quietly as he could, John crept into the music room and stalked to the desk, crouching low so he was eyelevel with books of sheet music, wayward pens, and a pair of conductor's batons. John held his breath as thundering footsteps and muted voices passed by his door, and once they were gone, he barely held in a yelp of discovery: right in front of his nose there was a landline. A small, square red light blaring at him in the dark quiet of the room told him it was connected.

With only a fleeting worry about the chance of Moriarty finding a way to listen in (in which he very soon after discarded… he didn't think a place that held a mediocre music room would hold a high-technology recording center), John punched in the number that first came to mind, slumped bonelessly against the desk, and clutched the receiver to his ear as if it were the only thing that tethered him to life.

* * *

Exhilaration of the hunt spiked just underneath Sherlock's skin as he sat in Lestrade's rapidly moving police car (a few others following close behind—he seriously hoped Anderson wasn't. But the foolish man was on forensics, so there wouldn't be a reason for him to be there, would it?), barely taking note of the blurred surroundings outside his window. He sat up front next to the Detective Inspector, who with every few minutes uttered a long string of expletives every time he caught glance of the digital clock (Sherlock approved of Lestrade's understanding of the need to hurry, even if they were already going fifteen over the speed limit. But it was fine… they had their annoyingly loud sirens on which made their speeding completely legal). Sherlock knew he shouldn't have been enjoying the anticipation roaring inside him and trying to claw its way out, but he couldn't help himself. _This _was what he lived for (though he _really _did not like the fact that he got this stimulation at the risk of John's life. _That _was unacceptable, and he mentally berated himself for it).

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the dashboard, impatient and almost regretting his brother's offering: a helicopter (_almost_ being the key word. He wasn't quite that desperate yet. He had already accepted his brother's help earlier, and he was sure Lestrade and their speeding police cars would be enough to get them to Bristol). His thoughts trailed into dark waters, sending off rolling trains of scenarios as they went, most of them ending with John unable to speak to him again and lying six feet under (_No, Sherlock, A Very Lot Not Good_), and every time he came to that conclusion, a spot deep within his ribcage shuddered unpleasantly. No. John was going to make it out of this. John was a soldier. He was tough.

Sherlock's cell phone rang shrilly, making Lestrade jump and swear as the police car swerved (really, Lestrade, it's just a mobile). He stopped the insistent drumming his fingers created and slid his phone from his pocket, brows furrowing as he took in the unfamiliar number. Should he take the call? If it was someone contacting him for a case, then he could let them catch the voicemail (now was not the time for sniveling, unimportant matters such as a cheating wife or a missing dog). He let the phone ring a few more times before curiosity stroked soothingly at his brain.

He pressed the cool touch of the speaker-phone against his ear and said in a quiet voice, "Hello."

"Sh-Sherlock?"

Relief crashed down so hard upon his senses his self-control slipped and he felt something burning prick at the corner of his eyes. Tension slipped off his shoulders as if it had turned to water. "John." (_He was alive!)_

In his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw Lestrade glance at him sharply.

John's voice was low (good John, whispers can travel) and hoarse, sounding grainy as it passed through wires and signals (he must be using a landline. Good. It narrowed down the possibilities considerably. Office building? Someplace with a basement, someplace public; certainly not someone's home—too small and too obvious). "I escaped..." (John paused to respire heavily here, labored and shaking with pain. Oh, John) "Didn't take them long to find out..."

"John." Sherlock nearly interrupted his friend, but he correctly assumed there wouldn't be a lot of time for him to catch up with him. Once Sherlock found John, they could catch up all they wanted. "Where in Bristol are you?"

"Figured that out, did you?" There was a smile in his voice, but he was winded with exhaustion.

Sherlock's grip on his phone tightened. "Tell me where you are."

A moment of hushed silence came from the other end of the line, the sound muffled as if it were being pressed against cloth. Sherlock's fingers twitched. Then, finally: "What did you say, Sherlock? I can't think too well right now..."

Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily. He would have to be more patient and talk more slowly for John to understand him. "Where are you?" He controlled his voice to make it as clear and comprehensible as he could, trying his best to ignore the buzzing by his ear (Lestrade, stop your worrying. It's annoying).

John coughed once, alerting Sherlock's senses sharply. Sherlock sat straighter in the passenger seat; he had nearly forgotten John was hurt with the excitement of his friend calling him. "Moron said something about a uni being close..."

Excellent. "Good John. Good."

"But I think I'm _in_ the uni," John continued in revelation, his voice still low and granular. "And it's pretty empty..."

Not quite, John, but you're not thinking straight. Sherlock decided it would be prudent to let his friend know. "You're not in the uni, John. You're at a high school. And of course it would be empty. It's not even five in the morning. The janitors wouldn't have even clocked in." Sherlock internally cringed at how harsh he sounded (of course John wouldn't know the time).

There was a quiet, breathy sound, and Sherlock realized with some horror that John was giggling.

"John?" he asked tentatively, wondering if the good doctor was in fine mental standing.

John giggled again, this time with more humor than before. Ah. John made himself laugh. Strange, but not unheard of. "I just realized I messed up Moran's name... but he really is a moron, isn't he, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rather agreed, but there were more pressing matters: "Are you injured, John?"

"What a question," John laughed, almost as if he were talking to himself.

Lestrade's lips pressed together in a firm, grim line.

"John..."

There was a sharp intake of breath before John said, "Shit!"

"John!"

But the line had gone dead, leaving the cold despair to creep back up again. Sherlock swallowed once and slowly took the phone away from his ear, staring at the expanse of highway in front of them. They were a lot closer to Bristol than they were before, but it still seemed like it was a long way away.

"Is he alright?" Lestrade asked, glancing at Sherlock's bloodless face.

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "Faster."

* * *

As soon as John set down the landline, he crouched behind the desk, gun in hand, as two identical masses of men sauntered in, wearing the same uniform as the others. With a spark of remembrance, John recalled their names to be Lazer and Blazer, but he could never tell them apart. For the split moment the men were in John's unhindered range of vision, John cataloged their profiles, vaguely amazed at the back of his mind how alike the men looked with their straight noses and short, dark hair. In that moment, John also took in their height, approximate weight, and how both of them carried filled gun holsters.

Great. The only time these henchmen had a gun was when John was too tired to do anything to acquire it.

"So where is he?" one of them asked as they passed the desk, venturing further into the music room. "Before he and Moran took that cab, Moriarty said the runt would be in here. Said something about a landline being used."

Shock replaced John's frantically beating heart in a harsh wave. Moriarty left? John supposed he should be relieved by this bit of good news, but it only burrowed a hole of apprehension within him. Why would he leave? Wouldn't he have wanted to join the man hunt for John Watson, Sherlock Holmes's only friend? It didn't quite create a bubble of comfort around John that Moriarty would leave without his henchmen in tow… leave John to die at the hands of another.

Then an impossible thought filled his mind: what if Moriarty wasn't leaving John to die, but his henchmen?

_No… surely not…_

The luxury of thinking time was spent as the heavy steps of the identical henchmen came closer, their voices much louder than they had been before. Had they finally remembered a landline would be attached to a desk?

_Great leap of logic, Boys, but we'll have to wait for your congratulations. Would nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit? _

Ignoring the throb in his leg and his burning muscles, John popped up from behind the desk (much to the unveiled surprise of the two identical men in front of him—though they were further away than John had originally thought, as they were by the music stands and chairs… had he mistaken his thudding heartbeat for steps? Worry laced through the adrenaline in his system at the possibilities of what that could mean) and pulled the trigger, the gun jerking back in his steady hand as it released the bullet, tearing its way through the thin air (though it was thick with suspense) and blowing a hole through the left shoulder of one of the henchmen. While the man who was shot cried out in anguish and dropped to the floor, the other had a twisted, murderous look on his face as he cocked his own weapon. John turned his aim to the other man, but when he tried to shoot, the only result that came was a dulled clicking sound. He clicked it a few times more, incredulous, before he gathered the good sense to duck behind the desk for protection. A bullet cracked through the air and imbedded itself in the dry wall about the level John's head was at.

Swearing darkly under his breath, John's mind raced as he thought of a better plan (he _still _couldn't believe he had run out of bullets! That's what he got for taking on another's gun), but the only one he could think of was mediocre at best, and it included waiting until the other man's bullets ran out (which had a great chance of happening, as the man had shot twice more at the spot John had been). With a groan that could have been from either agony or at his stupidity, John reached out for the nearest thing and threw it in the man's direction.

_I used to play one of these, _John thought distantly as a clarinet soared through the air. Its smooth black surface glinted dimly from the dulled light source the blinded windows allowed. John wasn't quite on target; the instrument crashed to the floor after its arch had run out to the right of where the other henchman would be.

"What the…" the bulky henchman uttered, before switching his aim from where John had been at first to the corner of the desk to where the projection had come from, but John had already crouched and ran to the other side, taking no other chances or even thinking as he sprinted from the room, his fingers clutching around the conductor's baton as he left the relative safety of his domain, bullets nipping the shining linoleum floor by his heels.

John didn't hear Lazer (or was it Blazer?) coming after him, but that didn't mean anything. He ran as fast as he could (which was pretty fast, given his history dodging bullets in Afghanistan and his more recent activity following the long legs of his insane flat mate as they chased after another sort of mad man), shouldering his way through random doors and rounding corners. The familiarity of the place had finally hit him once Sherlock had pointed it out: why hadn't he seen before that he was in a high school? It was fairly obvious now that he thought about it, given the posters of upcoming dances and class president elections plastered over the otherwise bare brick walls.

As he rounded the next corner, he literally ran into Roger, the less bulky but still fairly tall minion whose job mainly was to guard the door to John's room in the more stagnant hours. John and Roger both stumbled back, and John didn't hesitate before he shoved the baton into Roger's eye, trying his best to avoid the spurt of blood that sprayed from such a happening. Roger screamed, but his perseverance shown through like a beacon as he reached out with two large hands, aiming with surprising accuracy at John's throat. Unsurprisingly, the man missed and instead clipped John's bad shoulder, making him gasp as the ruined tissue rubbed together.

Fighting against the memories that threatened to take over, John retaliated as he usually did when someone touched anywhere near his bullet wound: he plunged his right fist into the assaulter's face, knocking him flat. That combined with the baton that would surely cause a hemorrhage, Roger groaned in defeat and agony before losing consciousness, a heavily breathing and burning John Watson standing over him.

Exhaustion chose that moment to conquer his senses. John staggered as his effort to stand proved fruitless, his broken foot now paining him with such stabbing intensity that he could barely walk, even with his makeshift walking boot keeping the bones straight. He didn't even want to think of the recovery time of his injury now that he had run on it (at least three months in a cast, not counting the time for physical therapy to get the muscles working correctly again or the surgery he would surely receive so a pin could be placed in his foot). He had promised himself he would keep fighting until Sherlock got there.

Gritting his teeth, John had an arm on the wall to keep him steady as he slowly made his way down the hall, testing doors to see if any were open. A school, if he remembered correctly, had a landline in every room, and he only needed one to be open so he could direct Sherlock. Moriarty and Moran were gone, and John had gotten passed all of the bulky minions Moriarty had brought with him on this mad game of hide and seek, in which he hid John and forced Sherlock to be the seeker.

At long last, a door opened underneath his pressure and John let out a breath of relief. Finally. John barely took in the long lines of shelves and musty smell, his eyes set solely on the front desk. John poured all of his lasting energy into making these final steps, his legs shaking, his lungs no longer burning from lack of air, his heart throbbing in his chest. It was over. It was finally over. If John had the talent, he would have sung.

"Sherlock," he said wearily into the phone, sinking into the office chair and relishing in such comfort he hadn't felt in a week. The cushion, which was normally only a step higher from a cold metal bleacher, soothed his aching legs. John slumped into the back cushion, not caring in the slightest about lumbar support, putting his bad leg up onto the desk in an improvised source of elevation. It was almost enough to send him to sleep, but John knew not to do that, not until he was sure he was safe.

Sherlock's voice was like a breath of fresh air, an angel singing from high above in the clouds. "John!" (Why did he sound so relieved?)"We're here."

For the first time in a long while, John allowed himself to smile. "Come and get me."

"I plan to."

It wasn't Sherlock who said that. John looked up in surprise and nearly dropped the phone.

"Oh, fuck."


	10. Chapter 10

10

"John! John! Tell me where you are exactly!"

Sherlock was shouting in his ear, his deep voice reverberating through the earpiece in an agitated panic. John, however, was only partially listening to his friend as the bulky apparition of Lazer (or was it Blazer?) stood in the doorway, a gun hanging loosely from his right arm, a hard glint in his eyes that hadn't been there in the rough week John had known him.

"Ah, hello," John slurred tiredly, drunk from exhaustion and strain. Sherlock was still yelling at him, but John did not feel much up to multitasking at the moment. Everything about him hurt—his muscles shook, no longer burning; his foot throbbed beyond endurance, and John didn't think he could run on it anymore… not with how he had been treating it since his escape. John took a shuddering breath, trying to stay awake, to stay conscious, but his eyelids fluttered. The adrenaline had long gone from his system. Yet he couldn't give up, not now, not when he had gotten this far with next to nothing. Though it was a big disappointment his entrapment was not yet over (the exasperation and irritation he felt at this was so extreme he wanted to just throw up his hands and give up then, but it was a disgusting, fleeting thought he immediately pushed away. He could still get out of this, only if he stalled for time). "Lovely place to meet, this library." He used the phone receiver to gesture to the multiple shelves along the wall and creating meager obstacles between him and the henchman. Dust motes lingered in the heavy air between them. Sherlock's voice was muffled as the phone was pressed to John's chest—John only had so much energy, and at the moment, he had to focus it on keeping himself alive. John mustered up a drained smile. "What's your favorite kind of story? Mystery? Adventure? I personally like the kind where the hero escapes to live another day…"

Lazer didn't smile. "You killed my brother."

John then remembered a bullet tearing through a shoulder with no mercy, blood, flesh, and shattered bone flying out behind the large mass of man, attaching to the black music stands. He remembered the murderous look on the other's face and the fear of his bullets no longer forthcoming. It was the same kind of shot John should have died from, but survived due to immediate medical attention, and it just occurred to John that the minion wouldn't have had the same luck (if he could call it that) John had back in the dry desert of Afghanistan.

John swallowed back his anticipation. The look on Lazer's face matched the one he wore earlier: angry, hard, and vengeful. "That's unfortunate. He was trying to kill me."

"You should have died." Lazer was stalking closer now, his steps deliberately slow and calculated, his thigh muscles bunching with every stride.

This wasn't going as well as John would have liked. "Don't plan to, mate."

"Tough." Just as Lazer lifted his handgun, John dropped from the chair to a sprawl behind the desk, the landline he had been holding now dangling by his nose by its wound wire, bouncing up and down as shots rang through the air. Sherlock's voice spilled out in agitated spurts, barely covered by the bangs coming from the gun. The air stilled and dust drifted casually, creating a false sense of peace now the fire had ceased.

"Come on out, you dog," Lazer called. "I know you're behind there. Come on out; I just want to have a little chat."

There was a high-pitched ringing in John's ears as his muscles spasmed, screaming at him not to pop up from his hiding space, but Lazer insisted they could speak, and John had little choice but to do as the man with the only gun said.

"Will you shoot me if I do?" John called out, ignoring Sherlock's unhelpful hints ("Yes he will, John, you're not _that _much of an idiot!") that sounded as if they were being huffed out and condescending at the same time. What was his friend doing now? Lifting weights? (A laughable prospect, and John stifled a giggle quite badly at the thought of the stick-figure of a consulting detective attempting to bench three-hundred pounds.)

"Well, eventually," Lazer said with an air of nonchalance. John imagined the hulk of a man shrugging as he said this. It did nothing to ease the clenching in his stomach or the reaching hands of unconsciousness. John shook his head roughly and tuned his ear to the nearest danger, who was still talking, "I'll let you settle a bit, get yourself together. I like to watch the light leave my victim's eyes, and though I'm willing, I won't make an exception for you."

John's heart was beating in his throat, making it hard to swallow. It was now or never.

"John? I'm close now," Sherlock said in the phone, his breath coming out in short puffs. Ah—Sherlock must be running. It would explain the static of whistling whirring through the phone's speakers. "Don't get up, John!"

John couldn't concentrate. "Shut up, Sherlock," he breathed, pressing his palms against the scratchy, thin blue carpet and heaved himself to his good leg, grasping the edge of the desk with his throbbing left arm and pulling up. He was careful not to put _any _pressure on his wrapped foot—it was rendered completely useless now the adrenaline had gone from his system (and by his calculations, he could use it only sparingly to get him a bit further—he would collapse instantly. Every scenario he imagined did not look very good).

"Ah, there's a good man," Lazer said with a slow clap, mocking John's weak ascent with his unwelcome audience. "Come on, you Dog, stand up. Keep dancing, pretty boy."

Humiliation crept up John's neck, its prickly feelers stinging his skin. Here he was, an ex-army doctor, awarded with a George Cross for his services in Afghanistan (as well as some other well-meaning awards that sat collecting dust in a shoe box underneath his bed), about to die execution style on his knees, unable to stand before his foe. It was degrading for a man of his expectations to be weak and trembling, unable to protect himself. And the patronizing tone Lazer had adopted did nothing but fuel John's frustration with himself. His body wasn't working like it should; it was like being trapped in his mind, only able to do things half as well as before while using the same amount of energy. Slowly, John made his way around the desk, Sherlock oddly quiet (had he finally listened to John for once?) from the speakers of the landline, and Lazer's dark eyes following his every move.

"You could always help, you know," John said as airily as he could, raking his eyes along the bookshelves, searching for an escape route or cover he could use, but he couldn't find anything remotely useful. Damn.

Lazer smiled, his features looking both harsher and more pleasant. "Now what would be the fun in that?"

John sighed. "Just trying to hurry things along."

In that moment, the landline's dial tone beeped quickly, signifying the call's disconnection. It made both John and Lazer jump, as it was a loud, unexpected noise in the hush of the library. John's heart thudded painfully in his throat at the noise, and Lazer shot the landline only after the first few tones the landline let out. Plastic and wire burst forth in a shower of sparks as the bullet transgressed through the machine, emitting a strangled squeaking noise as it died.

"That was annoying," Lazer commented unnecessarily.

John merely raised an eyebrow and pushed himself straight, no longer using the edge of the desk to stand. "That was my help."

Lazer chuckled darkly, drawing up his gun to John's eye level. The muscles in the bulky man's right arm corded in held anticipation.

John's heart shuddered in his chest. This was it; this was his last moment of life: nearly defeated in a school library, unable to walk and barely able to stand, alone as he waited for the inevitable to come. Of course, he could always duck and roll, but what was the point in that when all Lazer would have to do was to shift his aim, and John Watson would have died on his knees or his back like a lesser man.

No thanks. Captain Watson would rather stand.

In that moment, John stopped thinking. His thought stuttered to a halt, his heart froze in his chest; his lungs were winded; unable to breathe. Time seemed to stop as Lazer raised his handgun to the level of John's forehead, a smirk about his lips in victory.

John straightened his shoulders.

_BANG!_

A shot rang out, and John let out a quivering breath as Lazer collapsed, his hardened eyes dulled and widened only a fraction in surprise. The gun clattered from his hand to the carpeted floor as he landed on his stomach, the absorbent floor dampening with the added pool of blood spilling from the dead man's body. Shocked, John looked up from the body of the minion as Sherlock stepped from the shadows of the end bookcases, his face paler than John remembered, his lips pressed tightly together, and his green eyes wild with such contrasting emotion John was unable to read them. John had never thought he'd be so happy to see those dark curls (ruffled from running) and that annoyingly smart suit.

John's knees were weak with relief, and he almost passed out at that second (in the future, John would look back and snort at himself—he had been acting like a swooning damsel, though he was anything but). Instead, he smiled. "You came." His voice was rough, but he was too tired to even think about embarrassment at the moment. All that mattered now was that Sherlock was there.

Sherlock walked forward, slipping a very recognizable gun into his pocket, and paused right before the dead henchman, glaring down at Lazer with such intense hatred John was surprised his remains did not go up in flames. He glanced once at John before kicking the dead body. "Honestly, you'd think Moriarty would hire smarter henchmen," Sherlock said, his deep voice low and shrewd. After a long moment of silence, Sherlock looked up at John, his piercing eyes visibly deducing everything from his makeshift boot to the slipping waistline on his jeans to the large healing bruise on his face. John knew he looked a mess; he didn't need Sherlock Holmes to tell him so. Surprisingly, Sherlock's next question of topic was _not _aimed at John's injuries, "How many did you take out?"

John smiled again at his friend, almost nauseous with the amount of happiness hitting at him from all sides. He allowed himself a moment to think about the blur of pain and speed his escape had become, suddenly realizing how unbelievably lucky he must have been. John then realized he must have been thinking for a little while, as there was a frown on Sherlock's face. John cleared his throat. "Killed at least three, the others must be unconscious somewhere," John reported as Sherlock stepped over the body. "One of those was injected with some strange drug—"

John's words caught in his throat and John cleared it with a quieted moan—he had forgotten about his broken foot and had put weight on it, sending spikes of stinging pain through his foot and he would have collapsed had Sherlock not caught his elbow and held him up. John nodded his thanks.

"You alright?" Sherlock asked, the very few lines on his pale face deepening in stress.

John wanted to nod again, but instead he found his shoulders shaking as laughter issued from his mouth. He didn't mean to frighten his friend with this strange behavior, but John couldn't help it; he couldn't believe it. "I'm alive, Sherlock," he muttered with a laugh, and Sherlock's features relaxed into one of understanding. "I'm fucking alive."

"Yes, John."

John didn't know what was so funny about the situation, but he couldn't stop giggling. He sobered slightly to tell his friend something very important; he had to say this: "I-I didn't tell those fuckers anything."

Something odd crossed Sherlock's features, but it was gone before John could analyze it in the blurring of his vision. "That's good, John," Sherlock said finally. "You did well."

John sobered and caught the edge of the desk. "You were almost too late," he stated as blackness dotted Sherlock's blurred face. John's breathing became very shallow. He swallowed, trying to clear out his dry, cottony throat.

His vision cleared in time to see Sherlock swallowing as well, his Adam's apple bobbing once in his pale neck. Sherlock's hands clenched as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself, his eyes darting back and forth before they landed on John. "I know," he admitted.

There was a long silence as both friends stared at anything else but at each other, refusing to meet the other in the eye. Sherlock fidgeted and John sagged a little more before John decided he was finished with this horror of a school this place had become (and John resolved Moriarty really was a madman for using the place where impressionable children came daily). He caught Sherlock's reluctant eye and said, "Help me out of here, will ya, Sherlock? I want to go home, and I don't think Moriarty's henchmen are up to making tea for the both of us."

Though the joke was lame and grim, Sherlock smiled.

* * *

Lestrade blew heavily out his mouth, wishing for a cigarette even though his arm was decorated with a much needed nicotine patch, hidden by his dark blue police jacket. The moment Lestrade's car was close enough to the front doors of the school, Sherlock threw himself out the door (never mind Lestrade's warnings and how the car wasn't at a complete stop) and rushed inside with the look of a madman slipping onto his usually cold features, his phone pressed harshly to his ear. He had _told _Sherlock he wasn't allowed inside the school until _after _they had it sectioned off. He had _told _Sherlock not to enter without someone watching his back.

And what does the impossible man do? He disobeys everything Lestrade ordered him to do as if he had never heard Lestrade in the first place. Lestrade would have believed that was the case too, had Sherlock not always insulted him for being so unobservant all the time. Of course Sherlock had heard him. It's not like Lestrade was trying to protect the consulting detective.

No, not at all.

So while Sherlock bolted through the nearest entrance, Lestrade tried not to whine like a three year old girl who had not gotten the doll she wanted and exasperatedly did his job, directing arriving police cars, putting up the bright yellow police tape sectioning off the school from the rest of the world, and for the moment being, trying to assure the difficult janitor who was trying to go to his work that the school was now a crime scene (and thus it was closed until further notice).

Sometimes, Lestrade thought it might be better to run after Sherlock instead of having to deal with the things he does.

"Listen, you smart-ass gray-haired copper," the janitor said, jabbing a pudgy finger into Lestrade's face. He was a sloppy man, bordering on obese, with a wide, grainy face that could do with a scrubbing or two. His balding head shined in the rising light of the same sun that glinted off the windows, and Lestrade controlled himself (hard-pressed training forced upon him by the constant returning of a certain consulting detective) not to punch the janitor's ruddy face. Instead, Lestrade placed his hands on his hips, his blue jacket pushed back to reveal the surprisingly matching set of clothes he had put on despite his lack of sleep, and patiently waited as the man ranted himself tired. "I've been workin' at this school fer forty-three years, doin' the moppin' after those stupid kids, cleanin' the hardened spit off the walls, fishin' out condoms from the toilet water—the kids think it's funny, ya see—"

Lestrade sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wondering where on Earth his Sergeant had run off to; usually Sally dealt with these uncooperative civilians, and Lestrade found he didn't have much words of comfort to offer the man other than "shut up," especially not since it was his friend in trouble. John Watson was a good bloke, and Lestrade felt a bit antsy in frustration that he couldn't be a part of the impromptu search party Sherlock had dispatched. Instead, he had to wait here and keep his workers from entering the building until Sherlock came out (and if the consulting detective didn't do so within the hour, he would let his section in… but hopefully things wouldn't come down to that).

"—sweepin' those damn annoyin' pieces of paper smaller than the tip of my fingernail off me floors, dustin' the cobwebs from me supply closet, swabbin' the windows wit me squeegee—what's a crime is how much they pay me!"

Lestrade sighed again. "Look, I didn't choose this place for a hostage situation, Mr…"

"Blakely," the janitor spat, "Bo Blakely."

Lestrade chewed on his cheek to keep a rude comment involving the man's name from dirtying the already hairy situation. He didn't need to start a brawl, no matter how much he wanted to. "Mr. Blakely, I apologize, but you _cannot _enter that building! It's been quarantined until we've gone through the entire school with a fine toothed comb." The janitor shifted his weight to his other foot and straightened his navy blue worker's one-piece outfit as if rearing up for a fight. For crying out loud, where was Sally Donovan? And while he was on the thought of his Sergeant, he wondered vaguely where Anderson was as well. Neither of them was within his range of vision, and it was irritating that when he needed them most, they weren't around. Did he have to do everything himself? "I understand it may be difficult to hear your work has become a crime scene but…"

The janitor looked outraged. His cheeks turned an ugly deep purple color and his small eyes popped from his furrowed, concentrating eyebrows. "Difficult?" he spluttered, and Lestrade had to restrain the urge to handcuff the man to the car. "_Difficult?_ Yeh don't know difficult until yeh've spent a weekend scrapin' bogeys from underneath the kids' desks!"

_For God's sake_, Lestrade thought, casting his gaze around for the curly haired Sergeant. He was about to give up his desperate search when he saw her, coming out from behind an enclosed area of the school looking a little less than harassed, straightening her skirt and patting her hair with a bronzed hand. Relief released through his bones and he didn't even think twice about why she was on the other side of the school before waving her over. Her eyes widened but he hurried her pace, jogging on her clicking heels until she met with Lestrade and his distracting problem.

"Ah, Sally, good to see you," Lestrade said, pointedly ignoring the janitor's stare. "Call the Headmaster, let him in on the delicacy of the situation, and tell him his school is closed for a week while we investigate and clean it up, the usual jargon—and have you seen Anderson? I know it's not his division," (_And mine, _Lestrade added privately) "but I'd like him to take this—er—problem off my hands."

"Right away, sir," Sally nodded, her black curls bouncing as she drew out her cell phone, walking to the car to pull up information about this very school. Lestrade took her lack of answer for his question as an 'I don't know.'

The janitor furrowed his brows in thought, his mouth open, and Lestrade was almost impressed by how slow Mr. Blakely was. Before the janitor could utter one more word, however, Lestrade ambled away on the pretense that he had other police officers to attend to, when in fact all he was doing was waiting for Sherlock to reappear.

A yellow sun brightened the sky, reflecting in the rearview and oval-like side mirrors of the police cars as it passed over the reaching tops of the forests behind them. The nameplate of the school created a glare in the corner of his eyes, and Lestrade had to look away from its bright annoyance. He swiped a rough hand down his face in an attempt to wipe the stress away. He usually didn't have to deal with hostage situations (the victims were usually dead before he and his team arrived on the crime scene, and that created a lot less hassle and stress to keep someone alive), but to be fair, it _was _his division.

His short span of peace didn't last long. Mr. Blakely and his round figure soon blocked any sun from warming the lines on his face, and irritation itched under his skin. Lestrade's patience was wearing very thin, especially as time dripped away so slowly it seemed time had stopped. Being kept in the dark about the situation did not bode well for the Senior Officer.

"Say one more thing to me," Lestrade said, groping around in his pocket for his badge (and grunting when he couldn't find it—that must have been the fifth badge he has lost this week!), "and I will not hesitate to handcuff you and shove you into the boot of my car."

He had meant to say 'back' instead of 'boot,' and what he said was probably highly illegal, but it did the trick. The large man stared at Lestrade in disbelief for a few moments, blinked, then bobbed his head in understanding before stepping away. The janitor stayed close, as annoying as he was, but at least he was quiet.

A few cheap, rusting cars rolled onto the blacktop of the parking lot, and Lestrade merely waved a hand in a few of his officers' directions. They nodded and jogged to the cars, no doubt to tell them to leave until the situation was handled. Most of the cars slowed, their owners sticking their heads out the windows in order to grasp a better look at the yellow lines and the flashing police lights as well as the boxy ambulance waiting a few feet to the left of Lestrade's car, their wan faces blank with confusion or incredulity before allowing the few of Lestrade's team to explain. While they dealt with the pedestrians, Lestrade eyed his other officers carefully, making sure they were doing their jobs correctly: Forensics documenting quick notes on their clipboards or pulling on their infamous light blue scrubs (ah, there was Anderson—but he had gone a little shifty eyed… oh, fantastic, what had he done wrong now?); the foot soldiers reloading their guns, fiddling with the monitors in their respective cars, checking their bullet-proof vests and zipping their jackets up tight in response to the biting chill of the morning weather; Sergeant Donovan with a phone connected from her shoulder to her ear as she prepared her own weapon and chatted seriously into the line. Lestrade was about to check in with Sally and the Headmaster when the janitor spoke from beside him, sounding both awed.

"Well I'll be damned…"

It was enough to turn Lestrade around, and what he saw momentarily stopped his heart in his chest before releasing it in a frenzy of adrenaline punched beats.

The front doors to the school had opened with a quieted creak, emitting two figures: one he was glad and annoyed to see, the other he no longer had hope of seeing alive again. Sherlock had come back, unharmed, and this time assisting (_assisting! _Since when did Sherlock do _that?_) John Watson out the door, one lanky, suit-clad arm around the other man's shrunken waist as the doctor hopped on one foot. John blinked as if blinded, slightly awed at the sight of the morning sky.

Of course, Doctor Watson looked like Hell had taken a huge tractor (or one of those American ridiculous gas-guzzlers they liked to call a Hummer) and ran over him a few times. Lestrade hadn't known before how much muscle John had carried (he _did _wear sweaters often), but it must have been a considerable amount for him to look like _that _in his depleted state, despite the ribs that poked through and the bruises on his abdomen; it made Lestrade feel slightly embarrassed about his growing beer belly (and Lestrade instantly was ashamed, comparing himself to a friend who had been kidnapped and tortured and feeling less sure). Of what Lestrade could see of the man's hands, they were torn and battered, red painted over his knuckles in indisputable signs of a brawl or two. A huge purple, irritated area on the shoulder was visible from the distance Lestrade and the others were at, and Lestrade then realized it was an old bullet wound, one he hadn't really known John had, only suspected (the doctor had never mentioned it, only that he was invalidated from Afghanistan. Lestrade had been _positive _it was the leg, not the shoulder). John's pants were torn as well, but there were tiny, bloodstained holes in the jeans that slipped from John's waistline as he and Sherlock made their way carefully to the ambulance, and Lestrade noticed with a thrill of horror in his stomach that John's right foot was immobilized, looking about three times larger than it should be, wrapped in an unknown black material.

(There was a stale moment when Lestrade wondered how long that foot could have been broken and how long it would take to heal since it had been untreated… and then his thoughts transpired to a disbelief to how John Watson was still conscious—let alone _alive_, but there was a fiercely determined look on his pale face, and Lestrade would bet his petty salary that it was taking the sole of John's concentration to stay awake. Had Lestrade been the one with such injuries, he would have passed out long ago.)

Once his heart began beating again, Lestrade called out in a rough voice: "We got him! Team, move in! Arrest anyone on site but touch _nothing _else!" and watched as most of his officers sprinted through the doors Sherlock and John exited from, sensibly darting around the victim and his friend as they unholstered their guns, barely sparing the injured a glance before tuning everything out but their instinct and the lone thudding of adrenaline through their veins at the dangerous task ahead of them. Lestrade stood back, hands in his pockets, as his officers shot passed him, waiting a few moments to collect himself before making it over to Sherlock and John, where the former was shouting at any ambulance personnel for even getting within two feet of the good doctor, especially with that stretcher.

Lestrade thought this was counterproductive, as the doctor was very badly injured. John must have thought this as well, as there was an almost heartbreakingly familiar look of exasperation and irritation on his face (and Lestrade was so glad to see it his steps subconsciously strove to be quicker—he had missed his friend).

"Sherlock," John slurred, the deep purple bags underneath his eyes more pronounced as he stared almost blankly ahead, blinking slowly in order to keep himself awake, "It's fine—I'll be fine… just… relax, alright?"

Sherlock, whose face had returned some of the color it had lost earlier, merely glared at John but had ceased his quickened monologue.

"Hello, John, I'm glad to see you alive," Lestrade said truthfully. Sure, it might have been a tad tactless (and Sherlock had given him a sharp look, but who was he to tell Lestrade something about tact?), but Lestrade couldn't stop himself. He smiled and ignored the consulting detective, whose looks could kill at the moment.

"Ah—couldn't go without a fight," John countered airily, and even if his words were slower and weighed, Lestrade was ecstatic to know that John Watson was the same easy-going, likable man that he had been before. Though Lestrade was sad to say John looked even worse up close, he was at least still recognizable as the blonde chap he occasionally grabbed a pint with on those hard Friday nights at the pub, swapping stories of their mutual acquaintances (Lestrade would have said friends, but Lestrade's friends involved Donovan and Anderson, and he didn't think John liked those two, even if he was more kind to the pair of them than they deserved) and watching football on the nearest telly.

Sherlock huffed in impatience and waved away the ambulance authorities' attempts to bring the two of them to the medical vehicle. "Lestrade, don't you have some investigating to do?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "Of course, you won't find Moriarty or Moran—they would have left ages ago—and any leads you think you find won't do you any good at all."

Lestrade raised both his eyebrows and his hands, indicating that he meant no harm, and used a casual, but pointed voice to try and convince Sherlock of the inevitable. "Sherlock, John needs to go to the hospital," he said carefully, but Lestrade could see from Sherlock's unusually expressive eyes that any separation from his friend would not do him any good, not now that he had finally gotten him back. Lestrade refused his usual getaway (a sigh with an added hand down the face) and shifted his weight on his feet. "Look at the poor man, Sherlock, he can hardly stand."

Sherlock swallowed almost imperceptively and tightened his grip that held the doctor up. John looked like he was barely following the conversation at all.

"He'll be fine, Sherlock," Lestrade continued, "and if you'd like, we'll follow behind. I can put Sergeant Donovan in charge until I get back." And he would be damned if he let Sherlock ride in the ambulance along with them. The man was a handful as it was on a good day, and the doctors in the vehicle did not need the additional stress.

Besides, John wasn't dying. He would be perfectly fine and ready to run by Sherlock's side in no time.

It took a long moment, but in the end Sherlock agreed with a minute nod of the head. The medical authorities who had gathered around them sighed in relief as they were allowed to collect their patient, carefully lowering him onto the gurney and strapping him in. John looked vaguely annoyed (as much a man on the verge of unconsciousness can), and tiredly, reluctantly, permitted to standard procedure. He had lost his hold on consciousness before they rolled him away, leaving Sherlock looking slightly lost as he watched his friend get loaded into the ambulance.

* * *

About two miles away disguised as an ambulance a surveillance van sat idly, the insides cramped with wires and screens and keyboards. Two large men dressed in impeccable black suits and with earpieces connecting almost invisibly to their eardrums stood stock-still by the exit of the van, their arms united by their clasped hands. There were only three other people in this van, watching the crime scene at a very unfortunate high school play out—one of them a sinewy man with a pale face and glasses, one of them a handsome woman whose eyes never left the mobile in her hands, and one with an umbrella leaning against his leg as he watched the screens with a trained eye, his fingertips melded together and pressed to his mouth in a makeshift pyramid as he thought. All three were wearing suits as well, even the woman.

"Sir, are we to collect them?" Lindsey—no, Chrysanthemum (she was naming herself after flowers this week, and of course she would choose one most of the human population had trouble saying)—asked, her eyes flicking once to the screen Mycroft stared at before returning her gaze to her phone. The keys clicked as she texted rapidly.

Mycroft Holmes gazed at the screen, straightening only a millimeter taller when his little brother and his best friend ambled out the doorway to the school. Relief flooded his veins, but none shown through his mask of ice.

"No," he said finally, slowly, leaning away from the screen and laying a free hand on the end of his umbrella. "They'll be fine."


	11. Chapter 11

11

Seven days, ten hours, and seventeen minutes. A little over a week John Watson had been missing from Sherlock's side and Sherlock hated every second of this non-game Jim Moriarty had established.

And as Sherlock sat sprawled in the highly uncomfortable, probably puked on arm chair the hospital provided for John's room, he found he was completely bored out of his mind. Sherlock scowled at the hydration drip he had recently taken from his arm. The doctors thought he was dehydrated and needed to eat more—they would have sedated him had Sherlock not been prepared and defended himself from the approaching needle (the idiots thought he needed to sleep—it seems John wasn't the only stubborn doctor, and he wondered if it was a trait all doctors acquired during their jobs or if it was their stubbornness that led them to become doctors). The clear fluid leisurely leaked from the needle point no longer injected into the crook of his arm to the floor, creating a small puddle of swirling liquid on the otherwise pristine linoleum.

Sherlock then looked over at John, who had been asleep in the hospital bed ever since the surgeons finished operating on his foot and wrapped his hands, ribs, and bad shoulder. Sherlock didn't need a hospital report to know John had fractured his right hand (punched someone in the face hard enough to knock the assailant out, according to the pattern of the strain in his hand, and kept using it after the deed was done—John probably hadn't even noticed). Though John still looked tired and bruised, he looked a lot healthier than he had with the pale skin and the blood splatters when Sherlock had first found his friend. Some color had returned to John's skin, but it had also made the bruising on his abdomen darker and more horrifying. A large yellow bruise—an older injury than the others—splattered the left side of his face.

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked away from his resting friend, turning his gaze to the window right beside him. The deep violet night sky twinkled with white pinprick stars (of which Sherlock knew or cared nothing about, but he could still appreciate the odd sighting he often missed when dashing through the alleys of London), a few streetlights lit below in shimmering, seemingly gas-like orbs hanging in mid-air (though it was obvious they were held up by a tall, weather-proof lamp post). The black streets were painted in golden strips of light, and now and again a car rolled through the darkness, only their head beams giving them away. John had said Sherlock had almost been too late, and didn't Sherlock know it. He would never forget that if he hadn't jumped out of Lestrade's car like he did, or had taken a left when he should have taken a right, John Watson would have been the one with a bullet in his chest, not Moriarty's lackey. Unacceptable.

Sherlock remembered the strain he felt trying to get to John, and it was a chance of Sherlock's good hearing that he could pick up the muddled 'Library' from the phone. His lungs had burned, his legs had been on fire from sprinting for so long, but he had ignored that in order to reach his final destination—a place he was _determined _would not be John's.

It didn't matter that John looked battered and battle-worn (if not only a bit broken, but only physically). It didn't matter that there was a dead man between them at their reunion. When Sherlock had seen John alive with his own two eyes, things had returned to normal. His urgency, his undignified desperation, his _fear _(Sherlock Holmes _never _got scared, he just never entertained the possibility of returning to the life he led before John, for life _after _John would be ten times worse) had faded when his friend smiled at him. And then Sherlock felt the leap of joy within his chest; they were going to go home, everything would be alright… even if it was a necessary annoyance to bring John to the hospital. The uncertain future had now solidified: John would recover, and they would return to what they did best (which involved solving crimes, running after criminals—with John having his back, as always—making fun of Anderson and the other incompetent employees at Scotland Yard, breaking into the Diogenes club to annoy Mycroft, going out to breakfast when everything in the kitchen turned out to be inedible, and all those other silly things friends did).

John had had an annoying amount of visitors today, which was surprising considering they were still in Bristol. Mrs. Hudson had called to see if John was alright (and in which Sherlock replied, "Why don't you go see him yourself?" That had ended with an irritatingly long lecture from his landlady, who had apparently been in Scotland visiting her sister, and Sherlock hung up on her as she started telling Sherlock about how she had to treat her elders with more respect when she was a young girl). Lestrade had come in when John was awake, wanting both to see if the good doctor was alright and to snag a statement (Sherlock began to protest at this and nearly threw the Detective Inspector out—John needed to sleep! The faster he recovered, the faster things could return back to normal—but John just gave him one of his looks and told Lestrade what had happened, anyway). Sherlock could tell it was an extremely watered down version of the tale, but the retelling still created a desire in Sherlock to bring the henchmen who had participated back to life just so he could kill them again. Though he would have liked to end the torturers himself, he was incessantly happy John could defend himself, even when he was as handicapped as he was (Sherlock would have to remind himself that John still was invalidated… John was not quite up to par yet and it will be a few months at least until he could walk again). Besides, Sherlock still had Moriarty and Moran to catch, and when he did, he wouldn't be playing nice anymore (though the look on John's face after he had told him about the circumstances of his near fatal bullet wound in Afghanistan that John would like to be the one to kill Moran—next time, John. Definitely the next time).

In the duration of John's story, Lestrade looked vaguely awed and disgusted by the story, flinching when John described something even remotely painful, his silvery eyebrows pushed together in… sympathy? Concern? Sherlock didn't know, nor did he care. He just wanted Lestrade to leave.

"_Jesus_," Lestrade had commented, running a hand down his worn face. The clipboard he had brought in with him to take notes was bare, not a scribble scratched onto the blank surface. "You're a tough man, John, I'll give you that."

John had nodded, accepting the compliment, but his facial expression was vacant other than a polite smile.

John had been asleep when Mycroft came to visit. In fact, John had been sleeping a lot since his surgery had ended (which Sherlock found to be horrendously boring, but when John woke up and was able to joke around with him, then the boredom was set to a halt, if only for a little while). When the door had opened to reveal the tall man in the big suit and swinging a black umbrella on his arm, Sherlock scowled, crossing his arms and turning his nose up.

Sherlock didn't have to physically see Mycroft to know he was giving his usual expression of displeasure (narrowed eyes, frown tugging on his doughy cheeks, disdain clearly spelled out through his gaze as he looked down his nose at Sherlock). When Sherlock still refused to look at his brother, Mycroft emitted an exasperated sigh and sat down in the other visitor's chair, his gray suit wrinkling along the knees and the back of the thighs as the fabric bent and stretched with the motion.

"Go away," Sherlock said in his most expressionless voice. To avoid looking at his brother, Sherlock stared at John's heart monitor, which beeped a steady, if not slightly irregular, pulse as he slept.

"Pleased to see you, too, brother dear," Mycroft sighed. There was an indecorous squeak of the cheap hospital chair as Mycroft leaned back in it. Sherlock smirked as he imagined Mycroft's look of indignance at such blasphemous behavior a chair dared to commit in front of Mycroft Holmes, the epitome of prime and proper. He was the British Government, after all.

Sherlock let out a breath of annoyance; he didn't feel much like playing the game as he always did whenever in his brother's company. "Why are you here?" Sherlock asked bluntly, sharpening his stare into a glower when it reached the posh man.

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft was unaffected. Typical. Instead he stared at Sherlock with his intelligence and attempt at superiority (as if, brother-mine), his umbrella leaning against the shining steel chair leg. "As always, I'm concerned about you."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not the one hooked up to a heart monitor, _Mycroft_," Sherlock sneered, spitting his brother's name as if it had poison laced within the very letters.

Mycroft lifted his head knowingly, but for once, Sherlock had no idea what his brother was trying to imply. Instead of asking his brother what he meant, Sherlock deleted the motion from his head (thus marking it as unimportant and dull), and wished he was allowed his violin. _That _was a sure fire way to get rid of his brother; play a few off key or repeating notes and Mycroft disappeared before it drove him insane enough to shove scissors in his ears.

The silence that had fallen about them like a hushed fog was long and maddening. Mycroft had stared at Sherlock, his piercing eyes every once in a few moments roving to a part of Sherlock's body that might be betraying his emotions (urg) or how his day had went. Sherlock stared right back, taking in everything from Mycroft's new suit (tailored to a bigger size than the last one—must have finally realized he was gaining weight and not losing it—and the thought made him almost smile smugly… do your own damned legwork) to his precisely combed hair (not a piece of gingery hair out of place… ah, stressful situation over then, brother dear? At least the threat of the war had been abated). There were few scuff marks on his nearly impeccable black shoes (brand new—must have gotten his latest pay check. Care to share, Mycroft?) and the suit jacket was crumpled in the back (he had been sitting down for a few hours before coming to the hospital, but the shape and placement of the wrinkles in the jacket were too wrong for one of the comfortable chairs in the silent room of the Diogenes Club… he must have been sitting somewhere uncomfortable, but where?). There weren't any cake crumbs on his lap, nor were there swathes of frosting on Mycroft's fingertips, which indicated, almost disappointingly, that Mycroft hadn't any cake that day. Sherlock sulked a bit—his usual rebuke had been taken away from him, and one of Mycroft's most slimiest smiles made its way to Mycroft's thin lips; Mycroft proved triumphant this time, and they both knew it.

"We're hiring new MOD men," Mycroft began, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Where was he going with this?

"What, were they spying on people for money again?" Sherlock said with a twitch of his lips.

Mycroft frowned. "No." His eyes hardened into gray ice. "They made a near fatal mistake and have been dealt with."

Sherlock shook his head in mock sympathy. "I've told you before that you should be screening your defense people more carefully."

"Hmm, yes, well we wouldn't need to do so had our employees been loyal and trustworthy from the start," Mycroft said, looking down at the end of his umbrella as he lifted it into the air. Sherlock wanted to knock the umbrella from his hands and throw it out the window, but he stayed in his dutiful seat next to his heavily sleeping best friend. Mycroft looked up and smiled. "You know—"

"No." Sherlock blatantly put down his offer; he did not like it one bit. He steepled his hands and rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, connecting his right foot to his left knee.

Mycroft's smile soured into his 'you're-being-an-idiot' face, one that usually came when Mycroft didn't get his way (And Mycroft _always _got his way, so used to winning his fat brother was. Someone needed to put the powerful man in his place every once in a while, and Sherlock was more than happy to be the one to do so). "Think about the good of the country—"

"No," Sherlock said, this time in a more mocking voice. He slapped his arms onto the rests and grabbed the ends of the armchair in preparation to stand up. "It's not for the good of the country at all, is it?" Sherlock glared at his brother, who only had his eyebrow raised as he waited for Sherlock to explain. "It's another way to take from me what's mine and use it to manipulate me into doing your bidding in turn—am I wrong?"

Mycroft's impassive face did nothing to staunch Sherlock's rising temper. He then raised his eyebrow again, a mocking sneer lilting his lips. "Learn to share."

"I. Said. No." Anger began bubble within him toward his brother. Why wouldn't he just leave? "He's _my_ friend. Back off."

"If you really want to play that game," Mycroft sighed, clasping his hands over his stomach, "he was _my_ soldier before he was your friend."

"Stop being childish," Sherlock snarled. He had finished with this game and he was in no mood to affectively deal with the British Government at the time, especially when all Mycroft was trying to do was rile him up. Procrastinating again, brother-dear? Has the office officially bored you, now? There must be some pressing matters you'd rather not deal with or you would have been gone already.

"Me? Childish?" Mycroft chuckled and carefully set down his umbrella so it only clattered mutely against the shining linoleum. "Dear brother, if I'm childish, then you have yet to make it out of infancy."

"Too bad you did."

Mycroft sighed pointedly, and Sherlock turned his face away from his brother, tired of the fat man's antics. Time to pull out the bigger guns, then. "So, Mycroft, starting another diet?" He said this with false enthusiasm and a forced, closed-mouthed smile. "It must be getting successful... you lost what, half a pound?"

"Two pounds, if you really must know," Mycroft said, his posh voice letting in his displeasure of the conversation.

"Mmm—one," Sherlock corrected, and his smirk widened upon Mycroft chewing the side of his cheek to hold in a rebuke or a comment that would not become a man of his stature. "And that one pound must have been _difficult_ to shed." He lowered his voice, layering it with tantalizing secrets, "do you miss it, Mycroft? The chocolate soufflés, the éclairs you pluck off the offered platter at the end of every meal," (he grinned) "the jammy dodgers at tea time."

Mycroft's features took an unpleasant downturn as shadows darkened his face, and had Sherlock not grown up with his brother's dramatics, he would have run in the opposite direction. Instead, Sherlock just chuckled and waited, his long, pale fingers tapping the armchair in a linear rhythm.

"Good-bye, Sherlock," Mycroft said, pushing himself from the squeaky hospital chair, turning and walking towards the door to John's private room. His umbrella tapped the ground with each measured step. "Send John my regards, will you?"

Sherlock grinned maliciously as the door closed behind his brother, who obviously wasn't going to wait for an answer. The expression stayed on his face as his brother's slow ambling footsteps faded.

"You two are such girls."

Sherlock turned in surprise to find his friend looking at him from the hospital bed, blonde hair ruffled from movement on the white pillow, a grin on his face and mischief shining in his eyes. At first, Sherlock was taken aback, but then he realized John was being _friendly _with him; he was only _joking_. The defensive stance he had prepared dropped.

"He started it," Sherlock sniffed.

"Ah, yes," John said, humor in his rough voice. He cleared it once and drained the cup of water waiting on his bedside table. "Trodded purposefully on your spaceman? Completed your Rubik's Cube just to spite you?"

Sherlock told himself John just didn't understand the complexities of their childhood, which was a constant game to be the best. "No, he threw my experiment with a squirrel brain and some fascinating acid out the fourth story window."

John grimaced. "To be fair, Sherlock, that _is _pretty disgusting." He shifted to a more comfortable spot on the bed, refusing Sherlock's help to sit him up against the headboard. It was excruciatingly slow, and John let out a few breathless grunts (it _must _have been painful, and why John wanted to do this by himself when he clearly struggled was beyond him) before finally sitting upright. A trickle of sweat trailed unnoticed by John's ear at the exertion of such an activity, but Sherlock wisely said nothing about it. "How old were you?" John commented airily.

"Six and a half."

"Started young, didn't you?"

The conversation had taken a lot of effort out of John, and his rhetorical (at least Sherlock _thought _it was rhetorical; he would have to ask John later. He seemed to know best about these things) question was punctuated by a jaw-cracking yawn and fluttering eyelids. His eyes snapped open, trying to stay alert, but his eyelids seemed too heavy for John Watson to resist. In mere seconds, John was lightly snoring, and a smile had come to Sherlock's lips.

But that had been hours ago, and Sherlock concluded, as he stared out into the night passed his half-translucent reflection of his pale face (his curls tended to blend into the background, as dark as they were), that an unconscious John was _very _boring. And hospitals were _very _boring. At least when chasing after John with such fervor as a bloodhound with the scent of its enemy he had something to do.

_No, not good, Sherlock, very not good at all, _he growled to himself. He liked John safe, by his side, watching his back, it was only the thrill of the chase was all…

Sherlock groaned out loud and slouched lower into his chair. It was the confines of the blindingly white walls of the hospital—they were driving Sherlock mad. His fingers drummed against the arms of the chair in impatience, his left leg jittered. He disliked the smell of the hospital; sterile utensils, medication, and death. It unnerved him, reminded him of the days in his youth in which Mycroft would confine him to a room such as thus until Sherlock's withdrawal symptoms ceased, locked with no way out, his brother beadily watching the CCTV he had installed into Sherlock's private ward and taking away anything that could aid Sherlock's escape.

Yes, Sherlock would like his friend well again; the sooner, the better. But Sherlock wished John would hurry up already. Sherlock just wanted to go home.

"I'm bored, John," Sherlock said to his unconscious friend. In the bluish light the moon provided, Sherlock could the soft outlines of his face, smoothed of all lines in his sleep. He looked back to the window and tilted his head back, wishing the rails would keep his crashing thought trains on track. "Incredibly bored."

* * *

A few days later, John was released. Every day since the first John had been sleeping a bit less and eating a bit more. Color returned to John's skin and the bruises that hadn't healed were now a sickly yellow color. There existed a few cuts on John's temples and cheeks that were on the mend, and only a few slivers of silver scars remained on John's chest. His broken foot was in a plaster (as it would stay for a while, John informed him), his left arm was bound to his chest to keep the bad shoulder immobile as it healed, and the fractured right hand in plaster as well (and somehow John managed to be able to feed himself—he wouldn't allow otherwise).

Their assigned doctor admitted John no longer needed professional surveillance, that the most dangerous part of John's recovery was over, and muttered under his breath as he stalked out of the room as quickly as he could (ah—Sherlock hadn't even gotten to the part of the man's second wife in Birmingham, yet… and why was John glaring at him? Had he done something not good?). Sherlock was so relieved by the news he was practically bouncing on his toes, trying to hurry John as he spooned hot cereal into his mouth. Every other spoonful of food, John would look over, an odd look on his face (furrowed eyebrows, slightly widened eyes, a small frown—he wasn't irritated, was he?), before shaking his head and returning to his pathetic meal. Multiple times, Sherlock said they could receive better food at the flat, but John didn't seem to appreciate the gesture. Sherlock shrugged and kept his thoughts optimistic—they were going home! Home! Finally.

"Sherlock, have you been—will you stop that?" John said, and Sherlock snapped from his deductions of the last patient who had used this room (_government man, had been shot—intended for heart but only clipped shoulder… why else would a government man need a hospital here of all places? The sniper was a rookie or a bad shot… or wasn't paid enough—only a wife, no children, didn't watch the telly) _and looked down at John, whose scowling face was darkened by Sherlock's shadow.

Unsure what he had done wrong, Sherlock asked, "Stop what, John?"

John gestured with his only mobile arm, waving his spoon in the air. It glinted merrily when it caught gleam of the fluorescent lighting. "You—this," (John indicated the lack of distance between Sherlock and the bed) "_Hovering_," John said finally, grimacing out the word.

Sherlock straightened and backed away from the bed. He hadn't even realized he had moved from his position by the heart monitor (in which John had yelled at him not to touch—Sherlock only wanted to test John's doctor's reaction time, is all). "I don't hover."

John snorted and scooped another mouthful of grey slop (which smelled a mixture between cardboard, unsweetened and dry oats, and a dash of salt. Appalling). With a barely concealed look of disgust at the fact that John was _actually _putting _that _into his body, Sherlock slumped to the chair he had repositioned to be next to John's bed (John had wanted to teach Sherlock a card game, and when Sherlock had beaten John at it ten times, John proposed they play another one he liked to call 'Fifty-two Pick-up.' Sherlock didn't think the game was as funny as John did, and had glared at his friend as he picked up the scattered deck of cards. It had been tedious and cruel. Next time he won't warn John when he puts a pig head in the freezer—and he'll be sure to make it as unaesthetic as possible), feet tapping impatiently on the ground as he waited for John to finish.

John threw his spoon to the tray with a clang and glowered at Sherlock. "Are you done?" John asked him, arms crossed (well, his right arm crossed his body while his left was bound, but it was basically the same motion). "I am trying to eat, you know, and it's not as easy as it looks." John waved his plastered hand in the air as an explanation.

"I'm _bored, _John, and your _doctors_," (he said this word with a sneer) "refused to let me have my Stradivarius."

"Yes, because playing your violin at four in the morning is every doctor's idea of a wake-up call."

There was a monotonous quality towards John's voice, and it took him a moment to realize John was being sarcastic. "I was going to play it in the morgue," Sherlock reasoned. Surely that would be acceptable; only the dead would be able to hear him, and they wouldn't complain as he settled his thoughts.

"That's not creepy at all."

Apparently it was _not_ acceptable. But it's never stopped him before…

John sighed and Sherlock refused to look over at him. "Fine, Sherlock, since you're so insistent to get home, go check me out. I'll call in a nurse to help me dress."

Sherlock paused as he rose from his seat, eyebrows furrowed. "But I can help you do that."

John's smile was indulgent. "No, you can't."

Why was John being so obdurate about this? It didn't make any sense. Sherlock could help John just fine. Did he not trust Sherlock with such a simple task? "It's not a big deal, John…"

"Do I really have to spell this out?" John groaned, and when Sherlock looked to him expectantly, John said, "I _want _the nurse to help dress me, Sherlock, because I find her attractive."

The cogs in Sherlock's brain slowly clicked together, but he still didn't quite understand why John would want a complete stranger to help him with such a personal manner when Sherlock was right there. And what did appearance have to do with getting dressed at all? Setting that aside, he then scrolled over the pan of unimportant faces that had appeared in John's room, quickly discarding the elderly and/or male nurses that he had seen with a clipboard or administering shots or helping John sit up. He paused, having two choices, and almost hesitantly choosing the blonde who liked to wear an inch of make-up and had a body type similar to that of which John preferred to date. Sherlock's face scrunched in disgust. Of course John would find _that _attractive; physically weak, one—no, two—siblings, a bad history of dating and a worse one with her mother. But, of course, John wouldn't have known any of that.

"Sherlock, just go," John sighed, pressing the red nurse help button at the side of his bed. "The faster I'm checked out, the faster we can leave."

Sherlock didn't need John to say anything more.

* * *

The ride back was silent. Mycroft had sent one of his cars (Sherlock half expected the man to send a helicopter, but he supposed being discreet was more important at the moment), and the immense body guard (_thirty-four years old, no family, one dog to stave the loneliness, frequent golfer according to the telling indents on his fingers_) driving it helped John out of his wheelchair, his expression never changing despite John's scowl and insistence that he could get in himself. Sherlock had silently agreed with the guard, as John had one and a half working limbs, but wisely said nothing when he had caught John's challenging look.

Predictably, John had fallen asleep within the first half hour of the drive, his head drooping to his chest (despite the seat belt strapping him in), snoring lightly, his white wrappings peeping through the stretched neck of his beige sweater. Though John had gained some of the weight he had lost back, it showed how much his friend had lost when John's sweater was more ill-fitting than usual. But, Sherlock reasoned, returning his gaze to the blurred green and brown foliage passing by his window, John wouldn't have a problem; he was a doctor, after all, and John would eat the required and correct amounts, bring his health back to normal without harming himself in the process. Doctor, he mused, was a word that covered a wide range of areas, and Sherlock was smug to say his flat mate covered a lot of ground concerning the medical professions.

His phone alerted him of a text message, and Sherlock was momentarily surprised at how many unread messages he had stored in his message box, considering he usually replied to everything (unless it was from his brother). He had two from Lestrade, but they had nothing to do with an upcoming case, so he deleted them. Dull. A few were from past clients, thanking him (and by extension, John), but Sherlock never replied to these, so he deleted them as well. John had been horrified when he learned that Sherlock usually replied to those with a [Thanks for being interesting – SH] and thoroughly berated him for ever even _thinking _that would be alright, especially since they had lost a loved one (though how that related, Sherlock didn't think he would ever understand. Sentiment. Despicable. Dull). He had one from Molly Hooper, asking him if John was okay, and, strangely enough, if _he _was okay (but why wouldn't he be? He hadn't been the one cut and punched and whatever deplorable things Moriarty's henchmen had done to John).

The latest one was from his brother, and Sherlock hesitated, his thumb hovering over the red, phone-shaped icon on his phone that would delete the message before Sherlock could read it. Even seeing "The Queen's" name on his cell phone caused inbred irritation and resentment to wash through him, fueling his actions. Their last meeting had not ended well, and if this was a text message meant to rile him up, Sherlock didn't want to read it. He almost had done it, gotten rid of the text, but he paused, remembering the outcome of the last time he had ignored his brother (but John was next to him now, John was safe, they were going home).

With a half-curious, half-exasperated feeling inflating his lungs, Sherlock opened the message from his brother, unwittingly holding his breath.

[I've got your stereo problem fixed - Mycroft]

Relief and gratitude released as he exhaled, soothing out the scars and bumps anger and irritation had left behind under his skin, repairing the wear adrenaline had caused his veins in his fear and worry. He had forgotten Moriarty had bugged his and John's flat, turning it into a living hell, a passing of nightmares Sherlock had been positive he had deleted as to not live through them once more. The month following The Great Game had been a terrible case of insomnia for both John _and _Sherlock, but it had faded, only to be brought back into this non-game. It was a relief John wouldn't have to go through that again.

Sherlock's phone alerted him again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

[Did the wall deserve such punishment? – Mycroft]

A small smirk lifted Sherlock's left lip, and then he remembered it was _Mycroft _asking him this. He fixed his expression into a scowl, though the gratitude had not yet dispersed. Yes, the wall did deserve it, as Moriarty had not been available for Sherlock's aim with the poker. But he wasn't to tell his brother that.

[Thank you]

A text message immediately followed this admittance, but Sherlock deleted that one. Mycroft did have a special knack for ruining things, and Sherlock found himself far too content to let this moment of peace go. For once, he wasn't bored (something John would throw up his hands and declare a miracle, no doubt), John _wasn't _endangered, and though Moriarty was still out there (which bothered Sherlock immensely—he hated when criminals got away, and it made no difference that this one was more clever and interesting than most) he felt no need to chase after him. Besides, that's what he had Mycroft for. No doubt his brother and his marginally Secret Service could obtain the consulting criminal without much trouble—though why it hasn't happened yet left a sour thought crossing his mind, a thought Sherlock did not like the sound of, and Sherlock chased it away. At the moment he was feeling gratitude towards his brother—he would return to this added resentment on a later day.

The black car finally rolled up to Baker Street, its inhabitants walking by without a second glance, cell phones up to their ears and stress coming off them in waves. The brisk breeze of November whipped at Sherlock uncovered face, tearing at his navy scarf in an attempt to breach the pale skin beneath. His heart skipped a beat when his eyes laid on the familiar door of his flat, the golden letters of "221B" gleaming dully in the overcast sun. After a quick breath of the familiar, somewhat filthy London air, Sherlock returned to the warm interior of the black car, gently shaking John's right shoulder in order to wake him up.

"Wha'? Sherlock?" John muttered, blearily opening his eyes. The gray leather of the seat squeaked as he shifted into a more up right position.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said as John struggled to unbuckle himself. The guard had arranged John's wheelchair for the short distance to the front door, obviously there to carry the good doctor upstairs. John glared at the government man, but accepted the help without any complaint.

It was a long, arduous process, but eventually John made it to their shared living room, a wide, blissful smile on his face as he took in the familiar features of home; the angled one man couches, the cow skull hanging above the work table (which was littered with loose papers and files, and, on occasion, books), the beige drapes hanging low and covering the tall windows, allowing privacy to enter their comfort and warmth. Sherlock noted with pleasure that the wall no longer had a gaping hole in it and the plaster and wallpaper Sherlock had torn off it had been swept from the floor (and he grudgingly admitted Mycroft's team had done a phenomenal job returning the wall to normal—even the yellow smiley face and bullet holes had been recreated. Though it looked a little brighter, he doubted John would notice the difference, as unobservant as his friend was).

And the best part: silence. Unbroken, never deterring silence. It made Sherlock want to laugh in relief and glee. Here he could no longer be trapped in a never-ending nightmare, and to celebrate such liberation, Sherlock removed his jacket and scarf, draping them over the nearest chair (on which both his and John's laptops lay… hmm… Mycroft must have had his left over things collected from the Detective Inspector's house) and slumped to the couch next to John, who now looked like he didn't know what to do with himself. The guard left the wheelchair and a pair of crutches (for when John's shoulder recovered enough for him to use them) by the door, and a silence draped over the two of them as they arrived in the odd thrum of the domestic atmosphere.

"Sherlock?" John said, his voice breaking through the monotony.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, being pulled slowly from his thoughts.

"I'm bored."

Sherlock always enjoyed these turn of events, and he couldn't help the grin from his face at the returned normalcy. "We could play Cluedo," Sherlock suggested, bringing his steepled hands to his lips as he thought of something they both could do—something that _didn't _involve running or fighting or chasing after criminals. Astoundingly, Sherlock was fine with sitting in boredom with his friend by his side (a first and a last, no doubt, but it was there).

Sherlock chuckled at the profound horror conquering John's features as he considered such an activity. "No!" he cried, gesturing to the bright square game board pinned above the fireplace with a knife as would a butterfly with its wings, "Never again!"

Sherlock hummed in thought. "We could watch crap telly."

John groaned, bringing his plaster-encased wrist to his brow. "Sherlock, I'm not _that _bored, yet. 'How clean is Your House?' can wait."

"You could make me tea."

John stilled and turned sharply to face Sherlock, a scowl on his features. It was dampened by his casts and the wrap keeping his left arm and shoulder immobile. "Really Sherlock? Your amount of tact surprises me."

His lips twitched in amusement. "No it doesn't."

"No," John sighed in defeat. "It doesn't."

There was another moment of idyllic silence, a comfortable quiet in which both Sherlock and John thought of something to occupy their time (and Sherlock would not like to cook—that's what they had takeaway and Mrs. Hudson for, even if she _wasn't _their housekeeper), when the perfect solution came to mind.

"James Bond marathon?" Sherlock asked with a knowing grin, glancing at John from behind his hands.

John smiled: "Oh, God yes."

* * *

John insisted on sleeping in his own bed tonight. Of course, he was more than entitled to that decision, even if it was easier on all parties should John and Sherlock switch bedrooms until John had healed enough to use the stairs. John knew this, but he was so adamant on sleeping in his bed ("Just for tonight, Sherlock") that Sherlock couldn't refuse. Besides, having to go collect John from his bedroom would give Sherlock an excuse to check up on him in the morning (and no, it did _not _make him an overprotective mother hen, he would swear it).

It was the first night since John's return that Sherlock allowed himself to sleep (other than a sparse nap here and there). No violin playing at four in the morning, no shooting at the wall, no experimenting with stomach acid (the experiment he had been working on after the decaying hands one John had despised so much)—Sherlock just allowed his heavy eyelids to close and for unconsciousness to enfold its welcome, warm arms around his body and mind like a cocoon, his soft sheets and hefty duvet swathed around his legs and torso, tucked underneath his chin. Amazingly, Sherlock was asleep within seconds.

Seemingly as soon as he closed his eyes he woke with a start. No dreams had entered his deep slumber, and it took a long disorienting minute for Sherlock to read the clock on his nightstand and realize he had been asleep for a full four hours—a marvelously short time considering how long he had kept himself awake in the importance of this "case." Usually after the case he would be dead to the world for at least ten hours… why wake up earlier than that?

Bemused at this change in behavior, Sherlock sat up in bed, letting his dark blue duvet to pool at his waist, a chill creeping up his arms and torso as he glanced around the dark enfolds of his room, a few slim rays of grainy power shining dully through the half open blinds. His dresser stood imposing and tall, his closet door letting in perhaps more than just dust and shadows, his Belstaf coat draped on the hook of his closed door. How odd—the sun had not come up yet and sleep still itched on the insides of his eyelids—why was he awake?

Swiping tiredly at his face, Sherlock rotated his body so his long legs planted themselves on the rough carpet by his bed, tickling idly at his bare toes as he scrunched them, chasing the sleep from his joints. He stretched his limbs, waiting for blood flow to return. Satisfied and somehow awake, Sherlock stood and wrapped his blue silken robe around his body, covering his plain T-shirt and grey pants, yawning into his fist when he was done.

He paused in his steps as he reached for the door handle; something was off… the house seemed too quiet. Mrs. Hudson usually slept with a low volume of the television still on, and Sherlock allowed himself a moment of light panic before he remembered Mrs. Hudson was out of town. But something still seemed wrong; the ticking of his clock seemed far too loud and enclosing—how was it he woke again? It certainly wasn't his biological clock (for all Sherlock knew, he didn't have one).

Sherlock was fairly positive nothing could have broken into their home, as Mycroft himself was watching the cameras tonight (or, at least, that's the impression he gave when Sherlock had last seen his insufferable brother), but he decided it was time to check on his injured friend. John had no tolerance for painkillers, and with the amount of drugs running through John's veins Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if John had managed to sleep until the late afternoon.

Making sure to avoid every creak on the steps to John's bedroom, Sherlock snuck up, using the handrail as a guide (though he needed no such thing). Using the pads of his fingertips, Sherlock pushed open the door, standing at the threshold for a moment as he watched the steady rise and fall of his friend's chest.

No, there had been no reason to worry—John was perfectly fine. Sherlock glanced at his friend one more time before turning back, intending to go and read until John woke, but something glinting in the moonlight from the window caught his eye and he quickly turned back, hand clenching the handle, heart throwing itself against his chest.

_No… not here…_

Without warning, Sherlock flicked the switch just outside John's door, light flooding the room and miraculously not waking his friend (however, as Sherlock had mentioned before, John had taken enough meds he could have slept through a nuclear air strike). The light illuminated John's military sparse room, basking it in a cheery glow. But that's not what had frozen Sherlock's blood or stilled his constantly moving thoughts.

Sitting in a beige cushioned chair by John's bed was Moriarty, dressed casually in gray trousers and a half-buttoned polo, ankle connected to knee, a very familiar gun grasped lazily in hand and pointed directly at John's head. Upon seeing Sherlock's angrily shocked face, Moriarty's predatory grin crept slowly from ear to ear.

"Shh—" Moriarty cautioned gleefully, bringing a free pointer finger to his lips, "He's sleeping."

The laughter that followed would forever haunt Sherlock's nightmares.

* * *

**Evil grin - :D**

**But don't worry, there's no more torture, so no need to feel exasperated. Jimmy just wants a little chat. And only one more chapter to go, so no, I'm not stringing you along :)**

**Also, I have to say... CBS makes me feel ashamed to be an American. I refuse with the power of my one heart to NEVER watch that due-to-be-horrifying-entertainment called "Elementary." No! NO! Bad producers! BBC's Sherlock is the one and only! Sherlockians of the Moffat/Gatiss kind, unite against this terrible foe! Smite it, bit your thumb at it, throw every BAMF!John at it until it cries out in humiliation at its wrongdoing, "I am slain!"**


	12. Chapter 12

12

Sherlock stared at the madman in front of him, sitting in _John's _chair, pointing _John's _gun at _John's _head. His stomach rolled unpleasantly as pure fear struck in unremitting waves. Anger burned at Sherlock's esophagus and blazed out his eyes as he tried to power through the shock of how James Moriarty could have _possibly _entered 221B Baker Street without him, Sherlock Holmes, hearing. The trains running his thoughts have jerked to a stop, and when Sherlock tried to go through another scenario, the trains ran at their fastest pace before jerking to a stop again. It just didn't make any sense at all for this unexpected (and surely unwelcome) experience to happen.

Moriarty could have broken in through the front door, but Sherlock would have been able to hear it and would have woken instantly. Also, there hadn't been any clear signs of forced entry when Sherlock had glanced down the stairs to the front door (though it was dark, Sherlock's eyes could pick up such important frivolities with such precise detail only Mycroft could compete). Implausible. Delete. Moriarty could have climbed through a window—the ones in Sherlock's room, the living room, and John's room were darkened by the shadows of neighboring buildings and there fore would not have been watched by Mycroft's annoying CCTV. However, Sherlock still would have been able to hear Moriarty come in. Slightly more likely, but still highly improbable. Sherlock's disbelief increased to something akin to anxiety when he couldn't find a more plausible explanation for how Moriarty could have _possibly _entered his and John's flat while they were still sleeping…

_…Unless he had been waiting for them to come back…_

This thought made Sherlock's blood run cold. His palms dampened and his mouth was too dry to speak. Why hadn't he seen a break in? Had he somehow missed the telltale signs in forced windows or doors (an admirable thought, but Sherlock doubted this. Sherlock never missed anything)?

The Cheshire Cat's possessed grin had never left Moriarty's face. "Pleased to see me?" he trilled, clearly enjoying Sherlock's rare moment of speechlessness. "Did I surprise you, Sherlock? Did I get ya?"

Sherlock ignored the questions and didn't dare swallow before he spoke. "I thought you didn't like getting your hands dirty." His voice was low and thankfully steady as he carefully composed himself, step by step stripping the betraying emotions of shock, anger, and fear from his face until he was hidden behind his usual mask of impassivity. As he did this, he strode from the door, tying the silken string around his body to have an illusion of diplomacy, and stopped a few feet before the criminal mastermind, feigning boredom. He resisted the urge to tackle Moriarty to the ground and knock the gun from his hands (or any other suggestions Sherlock hadn't quite ruled out, such as strangling, shooting, locking in a freezer, or Sherlock's personal favorite: dropping him out the window).

Moriarty's shoulders shrugged, and the gun clinked against the chair leg with the movement. Sherlock tensed and looked over. "For him," (Moriarty nodded towards the sleeping man) "I'll make an exception."

That was high praise, coming from the criminal mastermind. In fact, he might have been impressed.

"It's over, Moriarty, I won this time." A proud notion rose within Sherlock, and he stood a bit taller. But it was only a fleeting emotion behind his mask that faded when Moriarty's grin refused to budge.

"You really don't get it, do you Sherlock?" Moriarty said, his smile unchanging.

The trains derailed again at this sudden turn in conversation; he had not expected it to go this way. By the way Moriarty was acting, he and Sherlock could have been at a tea party. It was fairly confusing—something Sherlock was loathe to feel. Should he have let a kettle boil? There was also the irritant that he wasn't quite on the same thought process as the criminal mastermind, and his brows furrowed together as he muttered, almost to himself, "Get—get what?"

Moriarty led the nose of a gun in a slow circle, no doubt framing the perimeter of John's face, his dead, brown eyes glinting with an unanswered promise. "Did you actually think I was trying?" Moriarty began, staring up at Sherlock's pale face. Sherlock held his breath to keep his disbelief from coming out in a startled gasp. "I could have killed John anytime I wanted, and God knows Sebby wanted to fire a bullet through ol' Johnny Boy's brain." Here he grinned, unblinking, the fingers on his right hand twitching for the trigger only millimeters away. The only sound in the room was the metallic tapping as Moriarty fondled the pistol and the pounding of Sherlock's heart in his ears (surely Moriarty could hear that? No, of course not, highly illogical, but the noise was so painfully loud and distracting, Sherlock had a hard time focusing on the words the consulting criminal let free). "Those henchmen of mine aren't even apart of my web, Doofus. They're just some circus _freaks_ I hired for this little game, and I only wanted to watch you squirm like a worm beneath my boots; I told you, _Sexy_," (the gun stilled in his right hand, still in range of John's sleeping form, and he leaned forward, bringing the left hand to rest on his knee. His smirk broadened.) "I like to watch you dance, and it won't take much for me to do it again."

Sherlock couldn't breathe properly. The walls of John's bare room were closing in on him and his lungs burned a little too closely to his heart.

"Had I really wanted the good doctor gone," Moriarty continued, inspecting his cheap polo with a casual glance, "you would have never seen him again. I could have him halfway to Kuwait before tea time and you wouldn't even know."

Sherlock inhaled once, but didn't say anything.

Moriarty closed his eyes and let his grin fade and leaned back in the armchair by John's bedside. There was a long moment of tense silence as Sherlock warily watched his nemesis, observing him for any sign, any _twitch,_ that he would harm his very vulnerable friend. Moriarty's eyes opened carefully and he adopted a tender look that did not quite match his harsh features. It was most certainly an expression Moriarty would have had to practice in the mirror, and yet the adaption was chilling—his eyes were a little too manic, his smile a little too simpering. The aura he carried was incredibly dark in comparison to John's calm, and utterly _good _one, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize the gleam in Moriarty's eyes was past lethal—it was obsession. Sherlock did not like it one bit. "He's so adorable when he's asleep, isn't he?" Moriarty said, reaching out to brush a strand of John's graying blonde hair from his face. Sherlock froze, not trusting himself not to attack Moriarty—the man had a gun after all. "I could just gobble him up. In fact, I might."

Sherlock's voice was icy with anger. "What do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious, Sherly?" Moriarty chuckled, returning to his relaxed position in his chair. "I want _you_."

So he _had_ been telling the truth. It didn't make the fact any less terrifying. "Then leave John out of it."

Moriarty gave a long suffering sigh and the gun slackened in his hands as if it were a weary weight to bear. "It's the only way I can grab your attention, Sherlock," he said, almost solemnly. With a piqued curiosity, Moriarty tilted his head to the side. "Am I not worth your time?"

Though Sherlock loved the idea of constantly being on the chase, never being bored, he wasn't sure how much he enjoyed John being in the midst of this game. It also was cause for irritation when Moriarty compared John to a toy that had to be taken away. He would have to set the rules, because there _would _be a next time, even if Sherlock would not like to play with the criminal mastermind anymore. "Leave John alone," he said quietly. His low voice was clear in the ear-ringing silence. "You can do with me whatever you like. I'll play your little games, but… leave John out of it."

There was something satisfied in Moriarty's expression. "Say the magic word!"

Sherlock glared. He had never begged for mercy in his life, as he once told The Woman, and he wasn't about to start now.

Moriarty's grin came back like the ever persistent rising of the sun, but with none of its warmth. "Fine, fine," Moriarty agreed, and Sherlock felt he could breathe again. "The next time we play, it will just be you and me." To Sherlock's intense relief, Moriarty placed John's gun in the drawer next to the bed, sliding it closed with uncanny grace and silence. He stood, brushing imaginary dust off his trousers. "It was good to see you again, Sherlock."

Sherlock could do nothing but watch, frozen in place as if pinned by Medusa's stare, as Moriarty bent down and pressed his chapped lips to John's forehead. John's brow furrowed, enhancing the premature wrinkles on his forehead, frowning in discomfort in his sleep. This action both frightened and disgusted Sherlock, but he couldn't do anything but sit back and watch it happen, horrified. As Moriarty had warned before, he was changeable, and Sherlock didn't want to do anything should Moriarty decide he no longer wants to appear generous and shoot the good doctor.

Moriarty straightened, wrenched open John's window and rested a leg on the sill, a pale hand on the cool, reflective glass.

"Until next time, my Jester," he whispered, and slipped out, pastel digits clinging onto the offered ledge for a sparse moment before they disappeared as well, leaving no trace that Moriarty was ever there other than an open window and the tense whisper of a promise winding and twisting its way through Sherlock's spine. Not even fingerprints had sullied John's windowsill.

Before the end of John's bed Sherlock stood, unable to move, barely able to breathe, his constantly running mind shocked to a standstill. A cool breeze wafted through the no longer cozy atmosphere of John's room, tainted by a madman's dark presence, brushing gently against Sherlock's frigid face. Woken by this light disturbance, Sherlock mechanically stalked to the open window and looked out to the alley below. Filth clung to the building opposite, cemented on by years of neglect, refusing to let go of such a capable home. Splashes of red, yellow, and blue circled the lower areas of the walls—a rebellion of the city's lowest. The lack of the usual morning light made it difficult to retrace Moriarty's steps, but, he decided as he slammed the window shut with a defining thud, it was unnecessary. Quite unnecessary. It would be a waste of time to chase after his sworn enemy, and a waste of energy. When it was time to play, Moriarty would have already set the board.

All Sherlock had to do was wait.

* * *

John Watson was having a good day. Fantastic would be his word of choice—blissful would be another. His tea was as he liked it—milk and no sugar (what a miracle it was they had milk today!), hot almost to the point of scalding, the heat a near warning on the plane of his tongue. The huge cocktail of painkillers created a blurry haze to rest on the outside of his otherwise crystalline vision, but it was a small price to pay for such _wonderful _ease to drift peacefully along his veins. He was positively giddy; he couldn't feel his foot, he couldn't feel his shoulder, nor his wrist, nor his ribs, and that just made his day that much _better. _He might have told Sherlock he loved drugs (it would explain the odd looks Sherlock kept giving him over breakfast that morning—ordered, of course… Sherlock won't cook and Mrs. Hudson was still away) but, to be frank, John just didn't give a damn at the moment. He didn't have to work, Sherlock was being somewhat manageable, and he had his tea.

So peaceful and uneventful was his morning he didn't notice his flat mate until his vision was blocked by a deep purple shirt, the buttons holding the fabric together possibly costing more than John's cell phone. There was also a curious, circular sensation tingling the worn skin on his forehead.

John cleared his throat loudly, but the strange action never ceased. It was very odd. Regretfully missing the steam rising in his face with the absence of his tea (hadn't he just been drinking some?), John cleared his throat again and spoke loudly, "Uh... Sherlock?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock rumbled, his silk shirt rustling with the same, tedious movement.

"Er... what exactly are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" he asked distantly, as if he had barely heard John's protest from the inner sanctum of his Mind Palace.

Frustrated, John fought the urge to clench his fists (as trying to do so would be impossible and painful) and felt a vein slither up his temple. Sherlock could be so unyielding sometimes. "That's what I'm asking you."

The strange sensation stopped, and there was a cold, round circle on his forehead that felt damp and tingling as it was exposed to the stale air to their flat. Sluggish as John's brain was, he finally recognized the white poof of cotton pinched in between Sherlock's fingertips, damp with what must have been disinfectant (the smell was sterile and oddly familiar—what else could it have been?). So shocked at this turn of events, and so used to Sherlock eccentricities (though they usually weren't done at such a close proximity), that John could only sit back, his right leg leaded down by the heavy plaster, his left arm completely immobile.

With careless effort, the cotton ball was tossed aside, landing on the rust-red carpet for Mrs. Hudson to deal with later. Irritation teamed with his now wired nerves, John opened his mouth to berate his friend for this unconscious display of disrespect, only to find Sherlock was no longer looking above his eyes but down at an unlabeled white carton of chemicals as he dabbed some onto a clean puff of cotton. "I'm doing a little spring cleaning," Sherlock said, holding the ball up to the light.

"On my face?" John wanted to use his remaining limb to kick Sherlock away, and indeed he lifted it in preparation to do so should Sherlock attempt to resume his 'Spring Cleaning.'

"Yes." Sherlock's long arm reached up to wipe at John's face, but John pushed him away with his free leg and his unhindered arm, causing Sherlock to stumble back and look at him in surprise (and what was that? Betrayal?). The cotton ball slipped from his fingers and joined the first swab on the carpet.

Aggravated and wild eyed, John shouted, "_Would you cut that out?"_

Sherlock shot John a look that suggested _John _was being a misbehaving child. "John, be patient," he said in a soothing voice, pulling a dry cotton piece from his breast pocket. "I am almost done."

"Sherlock Holmes, you are not putting _bleach_ on my _face!"_

A hint of exasperation lingered along the edge of his mouth and in the corner of his sharp eyes. "I am doing you a favor," he frowned.

This was unbelievable! Not only did John not know what the hell Sherlock was doing, but it was more annoying that his friend wouldn't even explain himself. "By burning the skin off my forehead?" he countered, breathing harshly through his nose.

Sherlock's ever impassive face let nothing of his reasoning trickle through. "It will grow back."

"_No, Sherlock!"_

A grumpy scowl slackened his tight features and without another word, he swiped up the bottle of disinfectant and the liter of bleach, storming from the room. His steps thudded heavily on the kitchen floor and John calmly (but baffled to the highest degree) looked in the direction of the open glass entrances as cabinet doors banged haphazardly and with the anger of a child who didn't get what he wanted. There was a moment before Sherlock's bedroom door slammed, and then everything went silent.

Unable to explain what in the world went wrong, John took his newly found tea cup (it had been set on the table next to him) and brought it to his lips, grimacing in displeasure as he found the calming liquid was now lukewarm, like a cool water bottle left out in the blistering sun for too long. He would never fully understand the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Four Months Later

* * *

Silence permeated the walls of 221B Baker Street, which was a rare (and often short) treat. Dust motes stirred in the languid rays of the morning sun peering through the half moon windows, brightening the faded cherry of the thick carpet and making a black lap top gleam from its position, precariously perched on the arm of an unoccupied, high-backed chair. In the other lounged a long panther of a man, his limbs stretched out before him and a look of such boredom on his face it was almost endearing. His fingertips nearly brushed the rug, his dark curls crushed underneath the weight of his active cranium. Every few minutes or so, a digit twitched, making up for his long bout of immobility with a small exercise, reminding his transport that, yes, he was still alive, but merely thinking.

Uneven thumping careened the staircase, and Sherlock's brow creased with annoyance, his previous thoughts interrupted. After a moment of peace and the thumping stopped, Sherlock's forehead smoothed of any lines and he returned to his stoic non-sleep… that is, until the thumping increased and became louder with every passing second.

"John," Sherlock complained, rubbing his temples with the calloused pads of his fingers to stave an oncoming headache, "could you be less loud, please?"

"Sorry, Sherlock! I can't hear you over the sound of my new brace!" called an amused voice, tinged with pride and amazement only a man who had been unable to walk on his own a day before could have. It was muffled by the wall separating the two friends and by two even louder thuds—John had jumped with both feet this time. Sherlock groaned in annoyance.

"Sherlock," admonished John as he stepped from the landing into the living room, a half-stern expression on his face. It was ruined by the mischief in his eyes—the same as a boy who had taken the cookie only because he was specifically told _not _to. "I have to get used to walking again. Doctor's orders."

"Rubbish," countered Sherlock, placing his melded hands back to its original spot under his chin. Why walk when you could run?

John grinned. "Not rubbish."

With a groan, Sherlock opened his eyes, irritation spelled in each pupil. "Fine, if you're so bloody proud of yourself, go make me some tea."

John raised an eyebrow. "I've been doing that since I've had the boot."

"And now you'll do it even better." Satisfied at an argument well won, Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles. A small smirk quirked at his lips when he heard the familiar exasperated sigh and footsteps—lighter and more natural than before—disappearing into the kitchen, the stick of bare foot and the slip of a sturdy brace on the tiled floor. Sherlock's lip twitched again; John's footsteps almost mirrored that of what they had before That One Time (as they now called John's unspeakable kidnapping and torture by Moriarty), a distant but welcome call back to normality. The stove hissed as heated metal met the cool kettle. China clinked as it was carefully set upon the table.

As these familiar, almost nauseatingly _domestic _sounds warmed the flat, a singular _ding _entered the nearly hushed air. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he carefully avoided looking in John's direction as he fished his phone from his breast pocket.

[Homicide in the Opera House. You'll like this one.]

"Is that Lestrade?" John asked curiously, his blonde head peering out from behind the foggy glassed windows.

Sherlock evaded John's questioning gaze and stared up at the ceiling, resisting the budding urges to jump up and shout to the world that Christmas had come early. It rushed through his veins in an eerily similar way as cocaine used to, but he had to push it away. Instead, he decided to count the singular, spindly strands that made up the spider web formed in the very corner, a few of the lines quivering as the predator plucked its strings.

Just as John thankfully gave up his inquiry (with an exasperated sigh), his phone received another text. Sherlock felt like groaning in frustration; would the Detective Inspector solve his own case for once?

[The show had been cancelled.]

Yes, obviously, it would have been. Usually crime scenes put a damper on schedules. Do keep up, Inspector.

[The star of the show had been found inside a prop on stage. Apparently, she's been dead for two days.]

Sherlock repressed another groan—this case sounded perfect! Stimulus to fight the rot! But he couldn't accept one now.

"It's Lestrade, isn't it?" John demanded as the kettle whistled. The pot was taken off, but John must have placed it in the sink, for now he was in the living room without Sherlock's tea. A very annoyed air whirled around John's stern look.

Sherlock frowned. "Tea, John."

"Forget the tea!" John shouted, throwing his hands in the air. Sherlock eyed his friend carefully as his face scrunched up in frustration and reddened, a vein forcing its way through John's forehead. Interesting. "For the past few months, you've been refusing cases—the only ones you would take were the ones not so dangerous, and even when they had some running in it, I was still useful! I helped you with those bloody codes, playing peacekeeper at the Yard… I even knocked out Mr. Winters with my damned crutch! Now that I'm able to walk, you refuse a case point blank? I can't believe you!"

"Your well-being is of utmost importance, John," Sherlock recited. He had heard this speech enough times from Lestrade, who had nearly chewed Sherlock out for bringing John when he was well enough to use his crutches (John had insisted!). Echoes of that lecture still refused to be deleted from his brain. "We discussed this."

"Yeah, well I'm not a bloody invalid anymore!" John raged, clenching his fists and raising on the balls of his feet. If Sherlock wasn't careful, he knew John would listen to the apparent subtext in his voice and punch him in the face.

"You really feel that way?" Sherlock asked quietly, leaning back in his chair, fingers to his lips.

"_Yes!" _John hissed.

"Good!" With an energetic zeal, Sherlock leapt from his chair, slipping his arms through his thick, black coat and looping his scarf around his neck. When Sherlock turned around, ready to go, he found John still and speechless, features slackened with surprise.

Sherlock watched amusedly as John gaped, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish, before John settled on a weary, "What?"

"You heard me," Sherlock said, the muscles in his cheeks burning as they handled the pressure of forcing his smile away. "Murder at the Opera!" he declared, throwing an arm up in barely contained enthusiasm (A case! He had a case! And John would be coming with him, once he worked through the shock). "No doubt romantic enough for you to come up with a less than mediocre title for your _blog_…"

John didn't need telling twice, even if Sherlock's features twisted in disdain at the mention of his friend's horrible romanticisms of their cases (or what John preferred to call them: _adventures. _Ugh. People's tastes in writing had decreased along with their IQ's—and no, he did not have _sour grapes_). Before long, John was half a step behind him as always, excitement rolling off him in waves. A frisk blast of air battered their faces as they stepped outside, steering clear of the passing civilians as they crossed the walk. The bright, yellow orb glared just over the straight tops of the tallest buildings, not enough to chase the cold away. Sherlock pulled his folded collar straight, ignoring John's pointed look.

"Sherlock, I couldn't find my—" but John stopped as Sherlock handed John his gun (meticulously cleaned of all Moriarty DNA, of course). The grin on John's face could have eclipsed the sun, and Sherlock couldn't fight the smile from his face any longer.

"Welcome back."

* * *

**End.**

**Well, that's all folks! And how strange is this: this is my first completed story EVER! In both fanfictionland AND normalfictionland. I congratulate myself. Usually I have a hard time finishing, but this one wasn't so bad! I had fun, didn't you?**

**Of course, I want to that all my viewers: my favoriters, my followers, and my reviewers (I thank you doubly-you guys kept me going). But I love you all the same! Thank you so much!**

**Line that inspired a lot of this story: "Have you seen your brother's address book lately? Two names: yours, and mine, and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me."**

**Also, I have some last minute notes, if you shall care to read:**

**I wasn't able to fit in the reason for the high school (it didn't flow well whenever I put it in there, and then I kind of forgot about it): Moriarty was using the cover as a film director. He was shooting a film at the school, got permission from the headmaster and everything (which was how they were able to fit the witch's chair inside... the janitor actually helped set it up... but as unobservant as ordinary people are, they didn't notice the lack of camera equipment-gasp!). They were told that if they hear any screaming, it was just the actors. I had a back story, guys! It wasn't random! I just didn't know how to fit it in. I was thinking of putting in a teenager hearing something at the beginning or end of each chapter, but it was just too much effort. I like how the story turned out without it, anyway, so I'll just leave it up to your imagination. It's pretty chilling in mine...**

**Kudos to those who recognized the reference to Dodgeball. Hilarious movie, and I couldn't resist. Another part I couldn't fit into my story (and you get to see my process for when my mind works to fast for details):**

Hospital  
(Mycroft) "John's names for Moriarty's-ah-helpers do not match our DNA tests."  
(Sherlock-not interested) "Oh?"  
"Hmm, yes, it seems Moriarty has a liking for the American film, Dodgeball, as he named four of his seven henchmen after the characters playing for the team 'The Purple Cobras.' "  
(confused at pop culture reference and Moriarty) "What... why?"  
"Ah, your guess would be as good as mine, dear brother. If I were to take a wild stab at a reason, I would suggest the man was merely bored."  
(not interested again) "Well, seeing as they're already dead, I don't see how it matters."  
"Quite."

**Man, the Holmes boys can be cold.**

**Also, a shout out to those who noticed my little reference to The Princess Bride (another fantastic movie).**

**Another part I cut (and for a good reason):****  
**end, John recounts his adventure. Sherlock looks pensive.  
"What's up, Sherlock?"  
"Hm?" shakes head. "No, I was just thinking."  
"That's a change."  
(small smile) "Shut up." (steeples hands and drops smile) "Moriarty called himself the emperor, correct?"  
(inquisitive glance) "Yeah. Sherlock..."  
"Now that is quite... intriguing."  
"Intri... Sherlock? What are you on about?"  
"Ancient history goes back ages and ages, and in the time of the Romans, emperors ruled over their entire kingdom."  
Silence.  
"And?"  
"Oh, don't play stupid with me, John..."  
"Sherlock, it's not so obvious for me."  
Shakes his head in irritation.  
"Do I have to spell it out for you? No, don't answer that. Obviously I have to."  
"Sherlock..."  
"The emperor, John, the supreme ruler of the land, law giver to mortals of the land! The people of that time were so completely enraptured by religion and believed that there was no higher power than the gods. So how did the emperors and kings get their subjects to bend to their rules?"  
"...the gods... the emperors said they answered to the gods..."  
"Spot on, old chap. So if Moriarty was the emperor..."  
"...then who was God?"  
Sherlock smiles. John wonders what on earth they had gotten into.  
This organized crime thing was more complicated than John had originally thought.

**Thank you all again! This has been a fantastic journey into the Sherlock world. But I'll be back soon!**

**CK**


End file.
